Disclaimer: Bleach and all affiliated characters and settings are the creative property of Kubo Tite and all companies holding title to its distribution. Used for non-profit entertainment purposes.

Warnings: Dark and psychologically weird, some potentially disturbing imagery, strong hints of violence, mild spoilers for current manga arc with divergent!future (depending on how you look at it ;3).

July 6 Prompt: Whipped

Incubus

Everything from the back of his neck down was on fire, so much so that he barely registered any sort of impacts other than the fact that the already-blurry world before him rocked to the distant sound of repeating sharp cracks.

It wasn't his fault. He didn't do it. He wasn't the one responsible. And he kept telling himself this over and over, in a feeble attempt to erase the memories of a very vivid nightmare that had managed to manifest itself in reality. Everyone else believed otherwise now, he was sure. He wasn't sure he believed himself, either.

The other half of him cackled hollowly in the back of his mind in a wordless taunt that perhaps he hadn't realized just how far all this had gone. He couldn't even agree with himself on how everything had gone so horribly wrong.

Wrong place, poor timing, not a scratch of preparation.

There was once a time in which his memories were fond of this place, where he had come here at first as an enemy, and then had managed to find reality through the illusion. But either that illusion had returned – and it had all been one long, happy dream – or that too had been an illusion and this was the reality. The last thing he remembered with any sort of clarity was that he had been on his way to rescue Orihime from Aizen's clutches, and was on the edge of success in that endeavor before he found himself back in Soul Society in manacles, in a great deal of pain and with a lot of enemies.

They said he had done something horribly wrong. And every time he asked what he had done, he was answered with that same crack that just barely preceded a stripe of fresh, hot pain on his naked back.

His other half snickered again, obviously pleased that the King had yet to place the puzzle pieces together. That bastard knew something – or he had been the one to do whatever it was Ichigo was being blamed for.

There was a foolish, childish voice in the back of his mind that – every so often – gave a keening cry for Rukia. Rukia could save him. But Rukia wasn't here, and every thought of her that crossed his mind had his Hollow half crowing in delight. Something had happened to her, and this time, the usual fiery determination to fix it refused to be summoned. He had done something to her.

With the next crack, stars blotted out what was left of his blurred vision.

His eyelids snapped open, and he sat up in his own bed, back at home, drenched in sweat. Rubbing a hand across his eyes, he gulped in as much air as he could in an attempt to calm his pounding heart and bring his harsh breathing back to normal. A soft, feminine snore came from behind the closed closet doors; the sound surprisingly soothed the anxious tension from his shoulders like an ointment, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Rukia was here, and she was fine.

But when he turned to lay back down to sleep, his back and shoulders distantly ached from memory, and he couldn't seem to tell himself it was all just a bad dream.