The Limits of Denial

Heading back to the shouten as twilight settled over a peaceful Karakura, Shuuhei was forced to confront the fact that maybe he had done something to annoy his taicho.

He’d been quietly pleased when his captain had handed him the assignment to the Real World, stressing the importance of collecting intelligence and liaising with the newly created “special” division Yamamoto Soutaicho had created after the War, and he had stepped through the Senkaimon five days ago determined not to fuck things up. He was being entrusted with this mission, which must be important indeed if Taicho was sending his second instead of one of the lower seated officers. He had presented himself at Urahara-san’s shop as directed, not the least bit surprised to discover that the wily ex-captain turned shopkeeper had been expecting him—the blond had eyes and ears everywhere. He’d been offered a room furnished quite simply but eminently suitable for his needs, and dinner had been a pleasant affair, allowing him to relax while listening to the shopkeeper gossip about the daily happenings around town—all of which Shuuhei had filed away for his report. All in all, everything had been quite pleasant and he had been looking forward to his assignment—up until he had risen the next morning and sought out the Visoreds in their warehouse to begin his work.

After the first two hours in their company, Shuuhei had felt the beginnings of a headache coming on, but he had persevered. After another hour spent listening to Shinji and Hiyori bickering—the diminutive ex-fukutaicho smacking the blond around the head with one of her sandals after he’d made some thoughtless, asinine comment—Mashiro had plopped herself down next to him, brandishing, of all things, a handful of hair clips and a wide, wide smile that had boded ill for the dark-haired shinigami. Shuuhei knew his hair had been getting rather long of late—he hadn’t had any time to get it cut during the past eighteen months—but this? This had been a bit too much. Still, it would have been undignified to flee the warehouse because of such a small thing—and Mashiro-san, he had discovered, might be cute as a button, but she was frighteningly similar to the pink-haired Vice Captain of the 11th division when it came to getting what she wanted. And apparently, she had wanted to play with his hair. Thinking that this was all a test, he had sat there and allowed it, feeling like an absolute fool the entire time. He figured that if he sat there long enough they would get down to business, but after another three hours had passed and the Visoreds had continued to ignore him—with the notable exception of the small green-haired woman who was slowly driving him insane, he had abruptly stood up and excused himself, trying not to make it appear that he was running away. The burst of laughter following his rather undignified exit had made his ears burn and his normally even temper flare, and he had spent the remainder of the day prowling the town in search of some Hollows to cleanse. He had hoped that the next day would be more productive, but it had been more of the same, only this time his patience had worn thin a great deal faster. Four days later he hadn’t even lasted an hour among the Visoreds, and he was dead certain now that his taicho was punishing him for something—though for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what he had done to deserve this.

Arriving back at his temporary home, he let himself in, toeing his waraji off at the door and grimacing when he realized that he was in desperate need of a bath. His nightly patrol around the town—his only outlet for his current frustrations—had netted him three Hollows, two of which had been easily dispatched, but the third had been big, and nasty, and he’d been flung through a wall before he was able to cleave its mask in two. He was sweaty, bloody, and covered head to toe in dust and dirt. Right now he just wanted a bath and some time to himself.

He had told the shopkeeper that he probably wouldn’t be back for dinner, and indeed, it was long past the dinner hour. His nightly patrol, as his frustrations continued to mount, had been lasting longer and longer with each passing day; he knew this couldn’t go on much longer, but his orders were set for another two weeks and he flatly refused to run back to Soul Society just because things were more difficult than he had thought they would be.

Admit it, you’re just afraid that you’ll piss Taicho off even more if you abandon your mission now. But he wasn’t even certain that his taicho was punishing him…

No? What would you call it then? Certainly you’re just wasting your time here. Maybe he just doesn’t want you around? I mean, you served under the man that stabbed him in the back, had wanted to bring that man back to Soul Society—

Shuuhei, continuing towards his room, stopped dead in the middle of the hall, staring blindly down the corridor. Could that be it? Could this just be Taicho’s way of getting him out of the way so he could find himself a more suitable fukutaicho? One that didn’t carry the taint of association with a known traitor?
The thought hurt, far more than it should have.

Forcing himself to move so as not to be caught standing in the hall like an idiot—kami only knew what expression he must have been wearing at that moment—he made his way slowly to his room, feeling suddenly dizzy. Of course his taicho had every right to pick another fukutaicho if he wanted, but he had never given any indication that he was unhappy with Shuuhei’s performance. Those first few weeks had seen some rough patches, of course, which was only normal for any transitional period—Shuuhei had grown used to running the division by himself and sometimes had to bite his tongue against issuing orders that were no longer his responsibility to give, and his taicho had grown used to life as a Vizard in the Real World—but they had settled quickly into their respective roles and the division was running more smoothly than ever. If his taicho was a bit distant, well, Shuuhei had merely attributed that to a facet of his captain’s personality—but now he was left to wonder if maybe that distance was quite deliberate on the older man’s part, and directed specifically at him.

Letting himself into his room, he unslung Kazeshini from his back and propped the sword on the stand near his bed before bending to pull off his tabi.

Could he have been that blind?

Making quick work of his sash, he let the length of fabric flutter to the floor, his shihakushou following a moment later. Normally fiendishly neat, he ignored the garment as he scooped up the sleeping yukata lying across the foot of his futon, not even feeling the twinge of protest across his shoulders at the movement, focused solely on the problem at hand. He exited his room, padding silently down the hall in the direction of the bath, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth as his thoughts tumbled one over the other in a mad jumble.

If he had been so blind—if his taicho held him at arms’ length not because that was just how he was but because he felt Shuuhei couldn’t be trusted—

Sharp teeth pierced soft flesh hard enough to draw blood, but that slight pain was nothing compared to the ache spreading through his chest at the thought that his captain didn’t trust him.

Shuuhei entered the bathroom, grateful that he hadn’t encountered any of the shouten’s inhabitants during his short trip down the hall, especially the sharp-eyed proprietor himself. Those grey-green eyes saw entirely too much, always watching from the shadows beneath the brim of his hat, at odds with his over-the-top behavior; Shuuhei shuddered at the thought of his chaotic emotions being laid bare before that gaze.

Moving mechanically, he stripped off both hakama and underwear, habit taking over as he bent to pick both up, folding them neatly and laying them on a convenient bench set against the wall, placing his yukata alongside his discarded clothes before he crossed the floor to the large bath tub. Turning both taps on to fill the tub, he stepped away to wash away the blood and sweat and grime he’d accumulated earlier in the evening, hoping to scrub away some of the anxiety rising within him at the same time. Wetting himself down with the handheld shower head, he picked up the bar of soap lying nearby and ran it over his skin, hissing as the lather worked its way into various cuts and scrapes and scratches. But the stinging pain did little to distract him from his thoughts.

Muguruma-taicho—for so long he had thought the man dead. He had etched the man’s mark on his face in remembrance, regretting that he would never be able to thank his savior for his life, the tattoo forever a symbol of all he had wished to be. And then the Vizard had showed up on the battlefield six months ago, and he had discovered that his hero wasn’t dead at all. Hollowfied, yes. An abomination in the eyes of Soul Society—but not in his eyes. Never in his eyes.

Rinsing off, he climbed into the tub and turned off the flow of water, settling back against the smooth rim to soak away the physical aches of his body while the one inside his chest grew.

He had gaped up at the man from his position on the ground, hardly believing his eyes as he took in that tall, proud form, and a heady sense of exaltation had filled him, had forced him to his feet and back into battle. He barely remembered meeting Tousen that day, barely remembered lifting his sword against his former captain or the blind man falling. The faces of the Arrancar he had battled blurred together, a tiny thread of his awareness always on the silver-haired Vizard moving through the ranks of the enemy, mask in place and battling for Karakura and the Society that had betrayed him and his companions all those years ago.

Kensei Muguruma.

He tested the name in his head, closing his eyes on a groan as he sank down further in the tub. Just thinking the name conjured an image of the man.

Stern features, amber eyes hard but not cold—never cold. That smile—dangerously sharp, wicked as he plowed through enemies on the battlefield; the child he had been on that long ago day had been struck dumb at the sight of that smile, his tears drying up at the man’s urging. The man he had become regarded the sight of that smile in an entirely different light—one that he had tried denying for the past six months.

Feeling his cock stir and knowing that what little privacy he had managed to receive so far would not likely last, he rose to his feet slowly, familiar shame burning through him at the direction of his thoughts. He shouldn’t be thinking of his taicho in such a manner, shouldn’t fantasize about the man who had saved him all those years ago taking him to bed, and tonight that shame was further compounded by the dull ache in his chest that his thoughts had produced. Lusting after his taicho was bad enough. Lusting after his taicho when it was quite likely that the man wanted him gone was quite another.

Still, his body’s demands refused to be ignored, no matter what his mind—and yes, his heart—was saying. Lying awake in his lonely bed, body burning with the need to touch and be touched, he had tried countless times to redirect his fantasies elsewhere, imaging Renji, Kira, Matsumoto—anyone and everyone he found the least bit attractive. But each and every time his thoughts would circle back to a stern face with lambent amber eyes, that powerful body moving over and within his own, and his back would bow on a soft cry as he spilled into his stroking hand.

Shuuhei stepped free of the tub and pulled the plug on the drain, scooping a towel from a nearby basket to dry off as he crossed to the bench where he had left his clothes. The dark yukata clung to his still damp body, but the midnight blue fabric effectively concealed his growing arousal. Grabbing his discarded uniform from the bench, he made his way back down the empty hall to his room, silently grateful that once again he managed to avoid meeting any of the shouten’s inhabitants during the short trip. He could only image what his face looked like at the moment, his face felt hot as his mind conjured images of his taicho rising above him, eyes gleaming gold as he smiled down at his prey—at Shuuhei.

The black-haired fukutaicho stepped into his room and shut the door, tossing aside his clothes as he leaned back against the smooth wood behind him, eyes closing as he drew in a shuddering breath, struggling for a semblance of control. Knowing he was only delaying the inevitable, he still tried to banish the images burning in his mind, guilt and shame and arousal twisting inside him, fanning the flames of desire higher and higher. He prided himself on his calm nature, prided himself on control, and yet he couldn’t control this. He’d tried telling himself that it was merely his body’s way of reminding him that he hadn’t taken a lover in a very long time—since before Aizen and Tousen and Gin had betrayed Soul Society—that his desire for his taicho was due only to proximity and nothing more, but he knew it for the lie that it was.

Pushing away from the door, he padded across the room to his futon, easing himself down upon the soft mattress even as he loosened the tie holding his sleeping robe closed with shaking fingers. Rolling onto his back, midnight fabric sliding across his skin, he reached down to his straining arousal, stroking it slowly from root to tip teasingly, eyes sliding closed on a soft moan as he allowed his imagination free reign.

His free hand stroked slowly down his chest, but behind his closed lids it was not his hand but his taicho’s touching him. Sword calloused fingertips circled a hardening nipple before pinching the sensitive nub, hard enough to make him gasp; his fist tightened around his erection, pumping it firmly as his hips rolled at the sensation of pain mixing with pleasure. He stroked his hand upwards, head falling back against the pillow to bare his throat, a whimper of raw need escaping him as he lightly scratched blunt nails across tender skin, fingers continuing upwards to his mouth, teasingly stroking across his bottom lip before he slipped two inside, suckling at his own flesh as he imaged his captain’s fingers gliding against his tongue, ordering him to ‘suck’ in a harsh, hoarse whisper, amber eyes burning down at him from above.

Freeing his fingers with a soft ‘pop’, Shuuhei slipped his hand back down his body, shivering as goose bumps rose along the wet path he traced, hips still moving his aching cock through his stroking fist. He spread his legs, bending one knee as his hand slid along the tender skin of where thigh met hip, teasing his way behind the tight orbs of his sac to circle one finger around the puckered edges of his untried entrance. A soft groan spilled from his throat as he slipped the slender digit inside, brow knitting at the slight pain, and he waited for his body to relax before pumping it slowly in and out. Slipping in a second finger, a soft cry tore free of his throat at the feeling of being stretched, the alien sensation of being filled unfamiliar but not unpleasant. Swiping his thumb over the leaking slit of his cock to spread the pre-cum already dripping from the tip, he sped his strokes, scissoring the fingers inside him and feeling for the bundle of nerves—

Dark eyes flew open in surprise as bright, hot pleasure swept through him, spine bowing as a rough moan tore from his throat. He aimed for that spot again, hand working at his cock, hips rocking upwards, writhing between his hand and the mattress beneath him as the gathering pressure at the base of his spine signaled his oncoming orgasm. Slipping a third finger inside himself in an aching need to be filled, the bright pain sent him tipping over the edge…

“Taicho!”

He spilled over his hand, thick seed spurting as his climax slammed through him, his moans filling the room as his body shuddered through his orgasm, stroking hand milking every last drop from his aching cock till there was nothing left. He fell limply back against the bed, whimpering softly as he removed his fingers, and the whimper turned to a sob.

Throwing an arm across his eyes when he felt the prick of hot tears against his closed lids, he breathed deeply in order to calm himself, his body wracked with shudders of an entirely different sort. Once again he had dishonored his taicho…

Maybe he deserved this punishment.

Though he had tried to deny it, telling himself over and over again that what he felt for his captain was merely simple admiration and respect, he was forced to confront the fact that the growing ache in his chest had nothing to do with his worry that he would lose the position he had worked so hard to obtain but a fear of losing his place at his taicho’s side. It left him feeling raw, and vulnerable, and he knew now that he was in serious trouble—worse still he had no clue as to how he was going to fix it.

Grimacing at the feel of semen drying on his skin, he forced himself upright long enough to grab his obi from where it lay on the floor and wiped himself off, tossing the strip of fabric aside with a mental note to wash it in the morning, his thoughts very dark as he switched off the lamp and climbed back into bed to lie staring up at the ceiling with burning eyes and an aching heart. Lost in his contemplations, Shuuhei never noticed when the tiny gap in his door slid closed, nor did he hear the near-silent padding of footsteps moving away down the hall.

It was a long time before he finally succumbed to exhausted slumber.