Adult-FanFiction.org : Bleach

The Limits of Denial	By : gypsygrrl420 Category: Bleach > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 5607 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach and I do not make any money from these writings. I just like to play with the characters

Chapter List
- 3
- 4
- 5
A/N: This took me forever to write and I apologize to everyone who has been waiting for this chapter. I still don’t know how long this story will wind up being, but expect at least two more chapters after this (though there may be more). From here on out, POV will switch between Kensei and Shuuhei in each chapter. Enjoy!

“Let me see your face…I want to see your face while I still can.”
Kazeshini was screeching in his head, calling him stupid and idiotic and reminding him that Tousen had tossed him aside like so much garbage, but he ignored the spirit to lean closer to the broken, dying man, unable to deny his former captain this small request. Despite the lies and betrayals, the man had taken him from the slums of Rukongai and given him an unattainable dream…
Wholly white eyes tracked over his face, the weight of that formerly sightless gaze coming to rest on the numbers etched beneath his left cheekbone. Full lips parted, forming a soundless “Goodbye Hisagi”, and Shuuhei’s eyes widened as he felt spirit energy suck inward in preparation to fire a cero blast—
He reacted to the threat without conscious thought, his own reiatsu flaring to counter the attack, and the monster he had once revered exploded in a shower of blood and flesh and bits of bone, drenching the kneeling fukutaicho in gore. He could taste Tousen’s blood on his lips, feel it soaking through his uniform to lay slick and almost greasy against his bare skin, and the overpowering smell—combined with the knowledge that hehad done this—made his stomach twist with silky, burning nausea…’
Shuuhei bolted upright in bed, heart thundering and breaths coming in short, gasping pants, and it was a full minute before he realized that he was in his room at the shouten and not kneeling atop a ruined building in the fake Karakura Town and covered in his former captain’s blood.
The shakes set in then, self-loathing and disgust and a host of other, darker emotions too muddled together to name clearly twisting through him wracking his lean form till he thought he might actually void the meager contents of his stomach—his frantic gaze darted about the sterile confines of his borrowed quarters for a receptacle so he didn’t sully the floor while a hand clamped over his mouth as the sour sting of bile burned the back of his throat, and only the fact that he had forgotten to eat (again) made the lack of bucket or bin or even a blasted vase bearable…there was simply nothing in his stomach to throw up.
He could feel Tousen’s blood on him, though, like an oily film against his skin, and the phantom sensation sent him scrambling from the twisted covers of his futon with the need to get clean beating frantically in his chest like a trapped, helpless bird behind glass.
Cool air against his skin arrested his flight towards the door, and he glanced down to see his yukata hanging open, reminding him of his activities the night before, and an all-new shame flashed through him. Again. He’d succumbed to his unhealthy desires yet again, had sullied his captain in thought and deed once more…
Worse still, he had done so even after realizing that the other man probably hated him.
His stomach heaved once more, and lack of food or no, his body was still trying to purge itself. His throat was burning, his mouth flooded by thin, sour bile, and there was nowhere for it to go. It hurt to swallow, but swallow he did, unwilling to dirty the floor, unwilling to leave the shopkeeper evidence that everything was not fine. He’d fought so long to preserve the fiction he’d clung to for so many decades, preserve the illusion that he was alright, that he remained unaffected by Tousen’s betrayal, by the Vizards’ return, by his unnatural, unwanted lust for his captain-who-wanted-him-gone…no, he couldn’t lose it now. He had to stay strong, ignore the ever-increasing blows that were dealt and roll with the punches. He was not weak, damnit! He would finish his time here in the Real World, endure the Vizards, and return to Soul Society where his captain would most likely dismiss him from his post as fukutaicho of the 9^th—and he would stand tall and take this latest blow with dignity and an outward show of composure to mask the final shattering of his soul. It was only fitting that Muguruma Kensei deal the last blow; the man had given him life, and he would be the one to take it away.
Resolute in this at least, his uneasy, delicate stomach under control, he turned to dress in his uniform, only to find the familiar pile of black and white clothing absent. In its place was a stack of Real World clothing, neatly folded and placed on the chair where hakama, kosode and shihakushou would normally lie.
For a long moment he blinked at the small pile in disbelief, not that someone had entered his room while he slept, oh no—though that caused a small amount of discomfort all on its own—but rather that his uniform—the symbol of his place as a shinigami—was gone. It was as if his identity had been utterly, thoroughly erased, as if he were already dismissed from his post as Muguruma-taicho’s lieutenant, and the realization hurt. How dare Urahara do this? How dare the shopkeeper take this from him? Of everything he had lost so far, the loss of his uniform was the harshest blow, and not the shopkeeper’s place to deal.
But he couldn’t confront the ex-captain in his sleepwear, no matter how furious he was—his own sense of modesty and restraint would not countenance his emerging from his room in such a state of dishabille. He had no choice but to draw on the clothing so thoughtfully provided, and once dressed, he stormed from his room to confront his host.
He avoided Kisuke’s piercing gaze, focusing all of his attention on the steaming mug of coffee Tessai had so thoughtfully provided knowing the silver-haired man’s preference for the beverage over tea in the morning—only Hisagi could make his tea just the way he liked it—and tried to quell the nervous anticipation fluttering in his stomach at the thought of seeing his lieutenant again face-to-face. He knew the road ahead of him would be a long one, and arduous—Hisagi was not one to fall prey to pretty words, even if Kensei had the capability to offer them. The memory of his lieutenant’s private moment the night before had haunted his dreams, making it difficult to sleep, and the despair he’d witnessed afterwards had sent guilt flooding his very being. He had done this…he knew that as clear as day, and didn’t need Tachikaze’s scolding to make that fact perfectly clear, though his zanpakuto had certainly given him an earful, even after he’d snarled at the spirit to ‘shut the fuck up’. He’d spent hours lying awake, formulating and discarding plans till exhaustion had dragged him into slumber to dream of his fukutaicho’s lean, lithe form and breathless cries of pleasure, and when he had been roused by a far too cheerful shopkeeper, he’d risen from his bed feeling sluggish and snappy with temper, with no definite plans to win his prize. Irritation surrounded him in a black cloud, and the piercing grey-green gaze currently dissecting him from across the low table where he sat silently with the other ex-captain only sharpened his already-foul temper.
“Ah, it appears young Hisagi-kun is awake,” said ex-captain murmured, snapping his ever-present fan closed and laying it on the table beside his own steaming mug of tea. The green-and-white striped hat—a ridiculous affectation—cast a shadow across the shopkeeper’s eyes, but didn’t conceal the glint of amusement in those murky depths.
Kensei extended his reiatsu, searching for Shuuhei’s, only to have it recoil as it hit the oncoming storm of the younger man’s power. From the feel of the wild, crackling energy, Hisagi was pissed, and though ordinarily the Vizard captain would take pleasure in sensing such depth of emotion from his usually composed fukutaicho, right now it was the last thing he needed.
The chaotic energy roiled through the doorway just ahead of the younger man, and Kensei braced himself as it splashed violently against his own reiatsu, forcing himself to sip casually at his coffee as he waited for his lieutenant to appear, wondering what had set off the normally calm shinigami.
“Where the fuckis my uniform?”
He choked on the mouthful of coffee he’d just imbibed as Hisagi stalked into the kitchen, dark eyes narrowed on the blond shopkeeper seated on the other side of the table, seemingly unaware of the silver-haired man sitting mere inches away, his lean figure radiating the promise of swift, remorseless violence. But it wasn’t the snarled question that had startled the Vizard, or at least, not that alone; nor was it the fact that his composed, stoic fukutaicho was ready to rend Urahara limb from limb—though that too was certainly startling in and of itself. No, Kensei’s reaction stemmed purely from the bolt of lust that had slammed into him when he caught sight of what his second was wearing.
In the sleeveless shitagi and kosode and voluminous hakama of his uniform, Hisagi was an attractive man, yet easily recognizable as a blooded warrior of the Gotei.
Dressed in slim-cut, well-worn jeans that hugged endlessly long legs and an equally worn, torso-skimming tee shirt the color of charcoal, the aura of “soldier” vanished entirely, emphasizing the wild, feral beauty of the man that lie beneath the rank. Out of uniform, Hisagi Shuuhei’s attractiveness was like a blow, hitting Kensei square in the gut. Even if he hadn’t already made up his mind to pursue and capture the younger man—to make him his—the sight of him in casual Living World fashion would have cemented his decision for him.
“Now, now, Hisagi-kun, your uniform is perfectly safe in Tessai’s hands, and I am ashamed to say that I was remiss in not providing you more appropriate attire much sooner,” the shopkeeper murmured, his eyes raking over the lean figure standing before him with an avid gleam that Kensei did not like. A low, menacing growl of warning left the Vizard’s throat, dragging Kisuke’s attention from the younger man—and drew Hisagi’s unfriendly gaze to his captain.
The surprise in those dark green irises would have been comical if the vice captain hadn’t immediately turned sheet white.
“T-taicho!”
Before Kensei could stop him, Hisagi was making his obeisance, gracefully falling to one knee and bowing his head to his superior, the lines of his body taut with…tension? Or was it fear?
The kid looked like he was expecting a blow.
Kensei felt his eyebrows draw together in a scowl; when had he ever given Hisagi cause for fear? He would never hurt the younger man, even if he hadn’t wanted him so desperately that his Hollow howled its possession inside his head.
“Get up, kid. That’s not necessary here,” he said, more sharply than he intended, and watched helplessly as the younger man flinched before rising gracefully to his feet, refusing to meet his captain’s gaze.
“Of course, Taicho. I apologize,” he murmured quietly.
Kensei glanced over at Kisuke, expecting to find amusement dancing in gray-green eyes, but the ex-captain’s expression was curiously grim as he watched his guests’ interaction. Beneath the brim of the ridiculous striped hat, those sharp eyes were narrowed very slightly, and the look he shot Kensei was unreadable.
“Tessai is cleaning and repairing your uniform, Hisagi-kun, and will return it to you once he is finished. I felt, however, that you would be more comfortable in less—formal—attire while you are here completing your…mission.”
Even if Kensei had somehow managed to miss the narrow-eyed glance the shopkeeper sent his way, the blond’s tone—along with the words of caution he’d delivered the night before—told him clearly that Kisuke was very much aware of why the Vizard had sent Shuuhei to the Living World, and he did not approve.
“But—”
“Leave it be, kid. He’s right—you’ll get more done if you’re not dressed like a shinigami. I made a mistake by not telling you that they wouldn’t welcome you dressed like my lieutenant, and I’m sorry that you had to deal with their bullshit because I’m an idiot.”
It was as close as he was going to get to telling Shuuhei that his “mission” was fabricated solely on Kensei’s desire to distance himself from the object of his growing obsession; he’d come to his senses three days ago, and now all he had to do was use this mini-vacation in the Real World to secure the younger man’s affection—a task he wasn’t foolish enough to believe would be an easy one, not when Hisagi was looking at him with those cautiously blank eyes that refused to reveal his fukutaicho’s thoughts.
“I apologize, Taicho, for offending your friends with my presence.”
There, a hint of defensiveness—good. Not ideal, but he’d take it over the emotionless façade that hid what Hisagi was thinking any day.
“My friends are morons who need their collective heads knocked together. And trust me, if they were offended by your presence they would have done far more than play pranks on you,” he growled, remembering Mashiro’s mirth from the night before. He’d been stupid and selfish, throwing Shuuhei to the wolves like he had. He was damned if he would let them continue treating him that way.
“I failed—”
Kensei cut his lieutenant off before he could continue. “No, you didn’t fail. I sent you to them unprepared, and though I’m technically on vacation here, I’m not about to let them keep messing with you.”
The younger man’s expression went absolutely blank, and the Vizard knew he had just stepped in it, though he wasn’t quite sure how.
“I’m sorry, Taicho, that I do not meet your standards as a vice captain, and that you felt the need to interrupt your vacation to correct my mistakes—” he began in a deadened tone, and Kensei’s eyes widened in shock. That’s what was bothering Shuuhei? He really thought that—oh hell no!
“Hisag—Shuuhei. Stop. Shut up with that, alright?” The dark-haired man’s mouth closed with a snap, his eyes having widened at the informal use of his first name. “I don’t find you lacking in any way as a fukutaicho—as my fukutaicho. You’re dedicated, intelligent, and have made my reinstatement—something that you had every right to feel resentment over—smooth as silk. Compared to every other vice captain in the Gotei, you’re the only one I want under me,” he said, ignoring the amused glint in the shopkeeper’s eyes at the unconscious double entendre, especially when he saw the flush of color rise into Hisagi’s face and the pleasure shining in those dark, cat-like eyes at the compliment.
Fuck, he wanted to see those eyes lit with pleasure for an entirely different reason—but this was a start.
“This is your mission, I’m only here to offer you support,” he finished in a quieter voice, hoping that his vice captain would accept his offering. If he didn’t—well, he would think of something else.
After a long moment’s hesitation, that dark head finally nodded, long lashes sweeping down to veil those shining green irises almost shyly, and Kensei fought the urge to leap upon the younger man, his Hollow crooning wordlessly in his ear.
“Thank you, Taicho.”
“Now that that’s settled, what do you say to breakfast, Hisagi-kun?”
The shopkeeper’s cheery voice interrupted the moment before it could grow too heavy, and for once, Kensei was glad for the ex-captain’s presence.
Shuuhei nodded, settling himself at the table between his captain and the blond, and Kisuke called for Tessai to bring them food.
Kensei thought that maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be as difficult as he had thought.
- 3
- 4
- 5
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

The Limits of Denial