Dampen

Title: Dampen
Author: Lys
Characters/Pairing: Shinji/Kisuke
Rating/Warnings: NC-17, BDSM
Status: One-shot. unbetad.

Shinji heard the thick hemp rope squeak like trees in the breeze as he leaned below Urahara Kisuke, slowly working more thin twine around the man’s ankles, brushing across the rough spots of skin where the joints stuck out. He attached them to the heavy, iron spreader bar and Kisuke didn’t so much as argue when the ropes got tugged tight, legs splayed apart and weighted heavily, pulling at Kisuke’s hips in what could only be an uncomfortable fashion.

Kisuke was apparently resilient, for a Shinigami his age.

Shinji stepped back, looking at his work. Strong thighs and calves taut with the act of holding the bar up, pecs and abdominals strained by the arms held above Kisuke’s head, crossed below the hands and looped with hemp, rough little fibers of the ropes cutting welts and thin blood trails along the sensitive skin of the inside of Kisuke’s wrists.

“You look kind of poetic that way,” Shinji sniggered. The ropes spun slightly, burning at Kisuke’s wrists even further. Kisuke just struggled slightly, face plastered with a wide, shit-eating sort of grin; head hatless and exposed under the dim light of the Vaizard’s reclaimed warehouse. He lifted himself up with his shoulders, trying to put less pressure on his chest from the hanging position, trying for a single deep breath the position of his arms wouldn’t allow him to take otherwise.

Kisuke wheezed out, “I’m glad you think so and I’d like to thank you again for doing this.”

Shinji tucked the sidelocks of his straight blond hair behind his ear on his left side, stepping forward to Kisuke and wrapping his spidery fingers around the man’s erection, bobbing uncomfortably in the chilly, slightly dusty air. A truck drove by in the distance—Shinji could recognize the slight shaking of the ground and structures of the building. Kisuke offered Shinji a pleased, throaty moan as he pumped twice, moving the Shinigami’s foreskin over the softness of his erect cock. He worked a curiously soft thumb-pad over the glans.

The moans were still coming too pleasantly for Shinji’s liking. There was too much enjoyment in the throaty noises, bubbling up from Kisuke’s chest like he wanted the world to hear exactly how he felt about the issue. This wasn’t why Shinji was here, to just get Kisuke off, nice and easy. No. They’d had a plan they’d agreed to, one where Shinji let Urahara feel guilty properly for once in his too-long goddamn life.

One where Shinji got to hurt a Shinigami deeply and personally, to maybe see if all that regretful, distracting hatred would go away, so he could focus on keeping his men and women alive. So that Shinji could focus on being a leader and not a petty grudge-holder with a posse.

He squeezed the cock beneath his palm harshly, nails digging in, feeling the throb of thick veins close to the surface protesting the constriction. He pulled his hand away, leaving little crescent-moon white depressions on the livid red surface. Shinji reached up and slapped Kisuke across the face once, harshly, with the hand that had just been wrapped around his own damp erection, little drips of smeared precum that had come off on Shinji’s hand leaving tiny bright wet-marks on Kisuke’s pinkening cheek.

He gasped and coughed, trying for another deep breath but unable to take it, weakening from the half an hour he’d already spent, suspended from the next story of the warehouse and spinning.

“You’re welcome,” Shinji said, slowly working at undoing the buttons on his brown silk shirt, one by one, voice smarmy as he went. It seemed ridiculous, to be thanking someone for kicking the shit out of you. The brown shirt fell to the floor, Shinji didn’t care at the moment if it was ruined. The black slacks were unbuttoned, just enough to relax around the stirrings of a hard-on beginning in Shinji’s bikini briefs. Shinji leapt onto the dark iron spreader, weighing Kisuke down with the sudden extra body being supported by Kisuke’s already straining arms. Shinji wrapped one arm around Kisuke’s shoulders, fingers threading through the thick, slightly dry hair. The other went to Kisuke’s cock, tugging roughly. The man gasped beneath Shinji, bucked despite himself, grinding his hips into Shinji’s slim ones even as his biceps quivered and the shoulders made unusual, unhealthy noises. Like they might pop out of place. Shinji sneered, expression upset. Just a shade of worry, because really.

Really.

Breaking Kisuke’s arm would defeat the purpose for both of them.

“You know the safeword. You only have to make yourself say it.” Shinji bit his lower lip, sucking on it until it was warm with uncirculated blood, rubbing the cool of his tongue ring along the surface. He dropped from the spreader to the floor of the warehouse, bits of dust and stone crunching under his loafers.

Kisuke said, “But you know I won’t use it. I need this just as much as you do, Hirako-kun, and I have the benefit of having a few spares unlike most people.”

Shinji caught the inference. He threaded a hand around Kisuke’s surprisingly strong waist, brushing against the planes of muscles that ran down his side, curling toward his erection, nestled in the dishwater-blond, coarse hair. Kisuke was strangely striking, in ways Shinji had never imagined. He had expected this to just be some (un)standard release of stress and distracting negative emotions, but now he was captivated. Kisuke’s skin was paler than he’d have imagined, even seeing the man’s face and chest. Barely hairy legs and arms, light blond that was there nearly blending out of sight, muscles that shouldn’t have been surprising to see on the man (Kisuke was still one of the stronger Shinigami, as little as Shinji tried to think of any of them). Little blue veins that ran down Kisuke’s forearms and lower abdomen, close to the surface and masculine, like decorations on a china plate.

“That feels a little like cheating,” Shinji scowled.

“Probably because it is,” snickered Kisuke, face plastered with the same doped grin it typically had, corners of his eyes betrayingly wrinkled with pain and arousal. A confusing mixture, although Shinji was getting the sense that this sort of thing wasn’t new to the shop-owner. The ropes around Kisuke’s limbs.

The hand behind Kisuke drove two fingers into his ass, unprepared, well-manicured nails digging into the tender flesh of the ring there. Shinji scissored the fingers wide, pressing deep into Kisuke. Shinji spat in his other hand, grabbing the man’s cum-beaded erection and sliding his hand up and down quickly, demanding and unforgiving in speed to match the movement of his fingers.

Shinji hissed, “I hate you,” and added a third finger.

He got the results he wanted, this time pulling forth a new kind of sound from Kisuke, keening and no less sexual. The sound he’d heard only a few times before, when he’d encountered a battle-injured Kisuke in the shouten, back arched as he lay on the tatami under Tessai, larger man working latex-gloved hands carefully over Urahara’s unique little gigai. Shinji’s cock throbbed in his pants. He could feel the wet spot gathering in his underwear and he shifted forward, grinding the erection against Kisuke’s hard, mature thigh. He coughed and moaned above Shinji, who quickly yanked his fingers out of Kisuke’s opening.

“That’s it. That’s what I wanted to hear. And now?” He glowered up at Kisuke.

Kisuke managed a simpering look, despite the way his chest was bobbing up and down with continued effort to just breath; despite the way his eyes looked fogged and far-away and hurting at some thoughts that ran through Kisuke’s mind. Shinji really didn’t care. He was here for his own issues.

“Now I don’t want to hear you make a single damn noise, Shinigami.”

Shinji leaned up slightly, shoving the three fingers that had been in Kisuke’s ass into his mouth, roughly inserted down to the third knuckles. He could feel Kisuke’s tongue pushing at the bottom of the fingers, trying to shove them out—nosebreathing only making it harder for the older man to get enough oxygen into his straining gigai to keep him conscious. Kisuke groaned, shifting on the hemp ropes. A cut finally opened on his wrists, deep, sending a short trail of quickly coagulating, shiny blood to stain his arm, matting the little blond hairs there.

“I said not a single damn noise,” Shinji said straightforwardly and, ripping his fingers out, punched Kisuke squarely in the nose.

The crack of the cartilage resounded with the Vaizard’s hatred.