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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
- 5
- 6
- 7
A/N 1: For purposes of plot, things are done here that aren’t Safe, Sane, or Consensual. Yes, the character in question does know better, and it will be addressed in the next and final chapter.

A/N 2: Okay, this was supposed to be the final chapter, but it got incredibly long, and so I decided to split the chapter into two. I swear there is only one more chapter, and it’s almost done being written. It should be posted sometime later in the evening, if I can sit still that long to finish it. Again, thank you to all my fans, and especially thanks to OwnedByACat, who made finishing this fic possible. Enjoy, and as always, comments are always welcome.

Seated on the couch he’d grown to think of as his particular seat in the Vizards’ warehouse, Shuuhei was getting his ass handed to him by the former fukutaicho of the 9^th in a game of Seven Bridge. To be honest, while he usually enjoyed the game, and was fairly adept at its play, he wasn’t exactly offering much of a challenge to his opponent. He’d been distracted by the presence of his captain standing across the room with Hirako-san, the two quietly talking; Mashiro-san, as the tiny green-haired Vizard had insisted he call her, had slapped down a meld consisting of the 9, 10, Jack, Queen, and King of hearts, and he’d discarded his 8 of hearts in his distraction, missing the lay-off. Mashiro-san had squealed, loud enough to drag his attention back to the game, and called ‘Chi’, laying out the rescued 8, along with a 7 and the 6 of hearts. Shuuhei bit back his groan and forced himself to pay attention to the game; the small woman would make him pay for his distraction, probably in a long hair-styling session. The last thing he wanted was his captain watching him get his hair put up in tails with bows and ribbons. The mental image alone was horrifying.

After a few minutes his play improved, and he laid out two sets and a meld that had Mashiro-san pouting up at him from across the table. And then Muguruma-taicho had come over to tell him he was off on a grocery run with Ushodo-san, frowning down at Shuuhei and his ex-lieutenant when he saw what they were doing. Shuuhei was guiltily reminded that he wasn’t there to play games with one of his hosts, though he wanted to argue that Mashiro-san was impossible to say ‘no’ to, and playing a card game was a hell of a lot better than having her play with his hair while everyone else ignored him. At this point, he didn’t even know what he was supposed to be asking them, and his captain hadn’t given him any indication that he wanted him to do anything special. The other Vizards were still ignoring him, going about their own business as they had the past three days, and he didn’t want the humiliation of trying to talk to them and having them ignore him pointedly in from of Muguruma-san.

His game took another turn for the worse after his captain left the warehouse with the former vice captain of the Kido Corps; he kept replaying the events of the morning over and over in his head, searching for a reason for the older man’s sudden thawing towards him. His face warmed every time he remembered how quickly his captain had reassured him that he was still wanted as a fukutaicho—that he didn’t want another lieutenant, just Shuuhei. He couldn’t help the way his traitorous body and heart had reacted to the unintentional innuendo—was still reacting to the words—even though he knew Muguruma-san had only meant them to refer to wanting Shuuhei in a professional capacity. He’d grown used to his captain being a distraction even when he wasn’t present, but for some reason it seemed so much harder to focus on anything else since the morning’s revelations.

Lost in thought yet again, he didn’t notice that the other Vizards had circled the couch until he was being hauled out of his seat.

His hand of cards scattered as he was dragged up and over the back of the couch by Otoribashi-san and Aikawa-san, raining down around them as he fought their hold.

Was this why his captain had left?

Was their talk that morning in Urahara-san’s kitchen just that—talk?

Despair crashed over him, a wave so strong that he felt himself go limp—allowing the Vizards to carry him easily from the large open common room and into a hallway whose entrance had been half-hidden behind a large screen-printed wall hanging that was a blur of psychedelic colors out of the corner of his eye.

“Fuck, thought he’d be heavier,” one of the Vizards grunted—it sounded like Aikawa-san.

“Kensei needs to take better care of his things,” Mashiro-san chirped from somewhere behind Shuuhei’s head, and the fukutaicho tensed at being called a ‘thing’—and Muguruma-san’s.

“Not his,” he grumbled, half-heartedly tugging against the hands and arms on his legs and shoulders, and a soft, vicious curse sounded just above his head as his upper half dipped lower than his bottom half before he was righted.

“This will go much easier if you just stay still, Hisagi-san,” Otoribashi-san said crisply, and Shuuhei opened his eyes—he hadn’t even realized he’d closed them—to see the pretty, older man frowning down at him, his long hair cascading over his shoulders to tickle the tip of Shuuhei’s nose and brush against his lips. The dark-haired Shinigami snarled, twisting hard against their hold, and for a single breathless moment, he was free of their hands—until he crashed down to the floor, landing hard on his shoulder and slamming his head against smooth concrete hard enough to make his vision dip and swim.

“Shit—why’d you have to drop him, idiot? Fuck, is he hurt? Is anything broken?” Hirako-san asked, his voice coming from an open doorway off the hall, and Shuuhei caught a glimpse of his concerned face before his view was blocked by an annoyed-looking Aikawa-san, who hauled him up to his feet. Surprisingly gentle hands combed through his hair, feeling his head where it had struck the floor. He didn’t feel any wetness that would indicate blood, and the fingers probing his skull didn’t elicit any sharp pain which would indicate a serious injury—which the owner of said hands must have assumed as well, because he was suddenly airborne once again, the arms and hands holding him much more tightly than before.

He was carried through the open door, then lowered carefully to his feet. The brief glance he got at his surroundings indicated it was bedroom, though a sparsely decorated one. Shuuhei’s own quarters back in Soul Society looked similar, but unlike the vice captain’s spartan room, the bedroom he currently found himself standing in seemed like it had been abandoned.

Oh. Oh fuck no.

His worst fears were confirmed a moment later when a movement by the bed drew his attention to Yadomaru-san, who was standing beside the Western-style piece of furniture holding several coils of dark-colored rope in her hands, a tiny smile playing over her normally serious mouth as she looked on.

“Strip him, then get him over here on the bed. We don’t have a lot of time before Kensei and Hachi return, so we have to work fast,” she said.

Shuuhei tried to bolt, but was overpowered easily. Aikawa-san and Otoribashi-san had his tee shirt up and over his head before he could do little more than blink, but they didn’t pull the soft fabric all the way off of him; instead, Shuuhei found his arms were tangled in the well-worn but still strong folds of cotton and pinned behind him, a strong hand gripping the twisted material at his wrists to prevent him from pulling his arms free. Small, strong hands clamped around his calf, just above the top of his boot, and he looked down with wide eyes to find Mashiro-san kneeling before him.

“Don’t make this harder on yourself than it has to be, Shuu-Shuu-chan. Lift your foot.” She didn’t wait for him to obey—not that he would have—but yanked his leg up with a strength that belied her small size. His boot came off with a tug, and was tossed aside as she switched to his other leg, repeating the movement. She was a hell of lot stronger than she looked; even though he tried to pull his leg away, she just yanked at his ankle, sending him off-balance. She pulled his boot and sock off as Aikawa-san and Otoribashi-san caught him before he took another spill on the floor—he caught the former glowering down at the small woman kneeling at his feet from the corner of his eye—but instead of righting him again, they took on more of his weight. Long, bony hands belonging to Hirako-san went to his belt, unbuckling the clasp and hauling it free of the belt loops with a flourish. Shuuhei panicked, knowing what came next, tried to kick out and twist away, but only succeeded in setting himself further off-balance. He flinched as the blond leader of the Vizards popped each button of his jeans open, the worn denim offering little resistance. Within minutes his pants were hauled down to his knees, where Mashiro-san took over and tugged them off completely.

Naked, shivering with a mix of fear and humiliation, he was marched over to the low, wide bed and guided down onto his stomach, the tee shirt finally removed from his arms—but a weight was settling on his hips, and hands pinned his shoulders down to the mattress, rendering him immobile. Another pair of hands—he had no idea who they belonged to, buzzing panic making it hard for him to focus, let alone think—folded his arms behind him, forearm to forearm, wrist to opposite elbow, but though he expected to feel the harsh kiss of rope around his pinned arms, for a long moment it seemed as if they were content to merely hold him there.

And then he felt the tickle of something soft and cool at the front of his neck, small, warm hands cupping his jaw and lifting his head, and his panic intensified as he felt the rope wind around his neck—once, then again—and be drawn snug against his throat, just tight enough to be felt with each shaking breath.

“Breathe, Shuuhei, or you’re going to pass out.”

Yadomaru-san’s voice was sharp and calm in his ear, the weight on top of him shifting at the same time telling him that it was she who was seated across his hips. He fought to slow his breathing, not because he had any desire to obey her, but because he was afraid of what they would do to him while he was unconscious; at least this way he still had a chance to escape if he was given an opening.

More rope went around his forearms, smooth coils looped around his wrists and just above his elbows, and everything pulled tight—far tighter than the cord around his neck; and then the rope circling his throat drew tighter, still not enough to cut off his air completely, just enough that he couldn’t quite get a full breath and his head was starting to buzz. He barely noticed her lifting off of him, or the hands folding his legs at the knee so his ankles touched his ass. More rope, winding tightly around his legs, binding calf to thigh, ankles close together and tied to his forearms by another tie. He could feel himself sinking down into a strange, soft lassitude, his limbs heavy yet at the same time, curiously light. He’d never been into bondage, but had a few acquaintances who were practitioners of the lifestyle—Rukongai rats like himself, who didn’t have enough reiatsu or any at all and therefore weren’t eligible to test for entry to the Academy; they had escaped the streets into various brothels, the prettier ones to the high class establishments frequented by nobles and the wealthy in the lower districts of the Rukongai, places where they were pampered and petted and taken very good care off; Shuuhei, if he hadn’t met Muguruma-taicho that fateful day a century before, wouldn’t have wound up in one of those nicer establishments, he wasn’t pretty like some of his friends had been. He’d never understood the appeal of letting someone tie him up; that implied a level of trust that he didn’t feel towards anyone. And yet here he was, melting down into the bed, allowing them to bind him against his consent without putting up a fight.

Shame flooded through him, driving away the illusory sense of safety that had been stealing over him.

He renewed his struggles, his limbs pulling hard at the ropes, but they held fast. Hands on his bicep and on his opposite him, flipping him over, and he snarled up at them when his legs were bent at the hip, more ties binding them to a kind of harness of ropes crisscrossing his torso, holding him spread wide and open to their gazes.

“Should we prep him?” Yadomaru-san asked, standing beside the bed, examining his bound form with a critical eye. He glowered up at her.

“Let me go,” he growled, his voice coming out raspier than usual thanks to the tie around his neck. Hirako-san moved around the bed to stand beside her, his brown gaze just as assessing as hers as he looked over their handiwork. He snorted, cast a sidelong glance her way.

“Only if you want Kensei to cut your hands off entirely. Nah, we’ll leave him the pleasure of opening his boy up,” he said.

Shuuhei’s eyes narrowed. “Muguruma-san isn’t the one you have to worry about, Hirako-san. When I get free, you’ll be dealing with me, not him.”

Again the blond snorted, turning to riffle through a basket Shuuhei hadn’t noticed on the bedside table. When he turned back, he held a contraption made of leather straps with a weird looking, thick protrusion several inches long and half-again as wide sticking out in the middle. It took a moment for Shuuhei to process what he was looking at, but when he did, his eyes went wide and he tried to scramble away as the Vizard reached out with his free hand. Bound as he was, he didn’t get very far.

Curling bony fingers around his chin, the older man tilted the helpless fukutaicho’s head back, bringing the gag towards his face. Shuuhei jerked out of his hold, sank sharp, even white teeth into the Vizard’s hand as it came close to his mouth, glaring up at the man menacingly. The blond yanked his hand away with a curse, eyes wide and tearing at the pain. Shuuhei tasted blood on his tongue, grinned savagely up at the other man—and yelped when long fingers curled tight in his hair, jerking his head back hard enough to hurt. Yadomaru-san pinched his nostrils closed with her free hand, and though he knew what she was doing, and told himself she wouldn’t really let him suffocate, she didn’t let up. Finally unable to hold his breath any longer, lungs burning and desperate for oxygen, he gasped for air—and his mouth was filled with cool, unyielding rubber that pressed down his tongue and forced his mouth to open wide around the intrusion, the tip just tickling the back of his throat. He tried to spit it back out, but the buckles on the straps were already being fastened tight behind his head, holding it in place. He glowered up at them—the others had left at some point, leaving only Hirako-san and Yadomaru-san in the room with him—but could feel the hated sting of tears pricking at the backs of his eyelids, his vision blurring as shame and humiliation flooded through him.

“Shhh, it’s going to be alright, Shuuhei. You’ll thank us later, I promise,” Yadomaru-san murmured, smoothing one hand through his hair, combing through the messy strands tenderly. He snorted, biting down on the fake cock filling his mouth in lieu of gritting his teeth. Why the hell would he thank them for this humiliation? Treaty or not, when he got free of his bonds he was going to unleash Kazeshini and slaughter them all.

His zanpakutou, usually so vocal, had been strangely silent throughout the whole ordeal.

‘Kaze?’ he sent a thread of awareness towards the spirit, only to come up against some sort of block. Where his Inner World should be, there was just a wall.

He looked up at the Vizards with wide, panicked eyes, and Hirako-san huffed out a shaky laugh, still clutching the hand Shuuhei had bitten. Blood dripped between his fingers, but the older man didn’t seem to notice. “You’ve been here for four days, and you’re just now realizing you can’t reach your Inner World? I guess the rumors about the discord between you and your zanpakutou were correct.” The Vizard paused, as if expecting a reaction, but Shuuhei just glared at him. The older man shrugged carelessly, not seeming to mind that Shuuhei was glowering up at him with an intensity that, if the gods had been kind, should have seared a hole through his head. “Sorry, probably should have mentioned it earlier, but the protections on this place block out all sorts of things. The only place in the warehouse you can reach your zanpakutou or use kido is in our training grounds. I was going to mention it if you asked, but you never did. So I figured it wasn’t important.”

Not important? No, that wasn’t something that Shuuhei had a right to know about from the moment of his arrival—not at all. He mentally added Urahara-san to his shit list. The shopkeeper should have mentioned it before letting his guest waltz into a warehouse filled with Hollowfied ex-Shinigami who had every reason to resent Soul Society and any of the Gotei’s officers.

Busy glaring at the blond Vizard, he wasn’t paying attention to Yadomaru-san—at least, not until she moved back into his field of vision.

“Shinji, help me move him up the bed and prop him against the pillows. We want him to be the first thing Kensei sees when he comes into the room.”

Shuuhei’s eyes widened, the horror of his situation dousing his previous anger. He was in Kensei’s old room. The Vizards had gotten the jump on him and trussed him up in the most humiliating manner possible, and Kensei was going to find him.

His taicho was going to see him like this, naked and shivering and helpless as a babe.

His taicho was going to see that Shuuhei wasn’t strong enough to be his lieutenant, that he was worthless—

The tears didn’t just prick his eyelids and blur his vision, they spilled free entirely, despite his desperate attempt to keep them at bay.

Hirako-san moved around the far side of the bed, standing directly opposite Yadomaru-san, and they both reached for him at the same time. They tugged him up, shifting him back towards the head of the bed, then carefully lowered him back down. A nest of pillows cradled his back, keeping him propped upright at a slight angle so anyone who came in could see him fully on display. Yadomaru-san patted him on the shoulder.

“Just stay still and you’ll be fine, Shuuhei. Kensei should be back soon, and he’ll take good care of you.”

Her words left him cold, nausea swimming in the pit of his stomach.

“Com’n, Lisa. Let’s leave little Shuu-chan to stew for a bit,” her companion said, and smiled thinly at Shuuhei. “Besides, I gotta clean out this wound and bandage it. I still can’t believe he bit me.”

The ex-fukutaicho laughed, heading for the door. “Told you he would be a biter. You shouldn’t have put your hand that close to his mouth. It’s your own fault that he got you.”

The blond muttered something under his breath, but tipped a wink at Shuuhei, his eyes glittering and sharp in the shadow of his hat. “See you later, Shuu-chan.”

And with that, the two left him to his thoughts, and the sickening lurch of panic that was clawing its way up his throat as he imagined his captain’s reaction when he discovered his lieutenant had gotten himself into such an embarrassing predicament.

Like hell he was going to just sit here and wait around like some damsel in distress.

They’d left his clothing in a neatly folded pile on an old wooden desk pushed up against the wall facing the bed, his boots lined up on the floor alongside. If he got free—when he got free—he’d have something to cover his nakedness up with, even if it wasn’t the comfortable armor of his uniform.

He pulled experimentally at his bonds, testing for give; the ropes circling his wrists bit more deeply into his flesh, and if he wasn’t gagged, he would be hissing in pain through his teeth. He relaxed, expecting the cords to return to return to their previous tightness, but nothing happened. The rope was far tighter than it had been when his arms had first been bound, and his fingertips were beginning to tingle. Taking a deep breath through his nose, he twisted cautiously to one side, hoping that he could reach a conveniently placed knot with his inconveniently placed hands—and managed to knock the neatly stacked pillows over, some falling over the edge of the bed, some just pushed away to one side. Losing his balance, he tipped over, landing on his side with his face half-buried in a pillow that threatened to suffocate him. He jack-knifed his body, choked as the rope around his neck pulled viciously tight, and wound up rolling onto his front. The new position pulled the cord looped around his throat even tighter, and he stupidly tried to raise himself up to take some of the pressure off his neck, but it only served to make the rope tighter.

Black spots swam in front of his eyes, his vision darkening at the edges, and he was choking. He struggled against the ropes binding him, eyes squeezed tightly shut against the growing pressure in his head, a high ringing in his ears blotting out even the sound of his guttural, muffled moans around his gag. In his panic, he barely heard the door swing open.

“Shuuhei? Shinji said you had something for—fuck!”

Somewhere far off he heard his captain’s voice, and he squeezed his eyes more tightly closed so he wouldn’t have to see the older man’s reaction.

Big, leather-clad hands clamped around his arms, biting harshly into his biceps, and he was being turned, pillows hastily shoved behind his back to prop him up. The pressure around his throat eased, allowing him to breathe again. He could feel his taicho’s fingers at the back of his head, fumbling to unbuckle the gag. Though he didn’t want to see his captain’s disappointment—or worse, disgust—he had to know. Forcing himself to look, he opened his eyes just as his captain pulled the gag out of his mouth.

Muguruma-taicho’s pupils were blown wide, his iris a thin ring of gold surrounding fathomless black as he looked first at the gag, then down at Shuuhei’s mouth, and finally, after a long, breathless moment, looked up slowly to meet his fukutaicho’s gaze. Shuuhei tried to look away, squirming with embarrassment and humiliation, shame following quickly after as his cock twitched against his thigh, but his captain turned his head back to face him with gentle fingers.

“Are you hurt?” he asked solicitously, far more calmly than Shuuhei had expected. The younger man shook his head, afraid to speak for fear of rousing the older man’s temper. The grip on his chin tightened fractionally, then eased till it was whisper-light again. His captain’s hand was shaking. “I need you to tell me you’re not hurt, Shuuhei.”

His voice shook too.

The younger man licked his lips, watched as the silver-haired Vizard’s—ex-Vizard?—eyes widened, his pupils dilating even further till the amber was all-but-gone.

“N-no.” He winced at the hoarseness of his voice, shivered at the wildness of his captain’s gaze.

“You didn’t ask them to do this.”

It wasn’t a question, but he shook his head anyway. “No, taicho.”

Finely-drawn nostrils flared, a sure sign that the older man was battling his temper. He flinched, tried to hide it, but he was laid out bare before the older man, and his taicho was watching him like a predator watches its prey. The shiver that went through him had nothing to do with the chill in the air, but Shuuhei ruthlessly tried to squash down the stirrings of arousal.

“Okay. Okay,” his captain said, in a distant voice. He released the fukutaicho’s chin, carefully drawing his hand away. The tremor in his hand was more pronounced.

“You’re shaking, taicho,” he said softly, watching the bigger man cautiously, and his captain let out a harsh bark of laughter that he bit off quickly.

“I’m trying to keep my hands to myself, Shuuhei.” The younger of the two tilted his head in confusion, trying to parse the meaning of the his captain’s words, and the other man laughed again, more softly this time, and smoothed his hands over his legs. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I had plans, you know. I told myself I would do things right, take it slow, give you time.”

Shuuhei could only look up at him in confusion, and a touch of fear. Had he been right all along? Had his captain been planning on getting rid of him?

“Taicho, I don’t understand what you’re talking about. Do you want me to resign my post as your lieutenant after all?”

“No! Kami, kid—we already discussed this earlier. I don’t want another fukutaicho—I just want you. All of you.”

His taicho stared down at him expectantly, seeming as if he were waiting for Shuuhei to—oh. Oh—but, surely he didn’t mean—?

“All of me, taicho?” He needed to be sure that he wasn’t reading too deeply into his captain’s words.

Instead of answering, the older man rolled his eyes and huffed out a sigh, then reached out and cupped Shuuhei’s face between his gloved palms.

His captain’s mouth on his was all heat and light and fire—there was nothing slow or gentle about the kiss, no room for misinterpretation. He arched into the heat of his taicho’s bigger frame, his mouth eager and hungry beneath his captain’s, nearly whining when the other man drew away.

They were both breathing hard, and his taicho’s eyes were molten gold when he met Shuuhei’s gaze.

“Do you understand now, brat?”

Shuuhei nodded dumbly, wishing his hands were free so he could drag his captain back down.

“Good. Now, as lovely as you look all tied up like this, I’m sure you want out of these ropes,” the older man said, tracing a fingertip along the topmost rope bound around his torso with a frown. Shuuhei nodded rapidly, nearly choking himself again, and his captain laughed softly, a bitter edge coloring the sound. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Shuuhei got the impression that his captain was deeply unhappy about something, though he wasn’t quite sure what, and he was afraid to ask. If he wanted him to know, he would tell him. So he kept his mouth shut and his questions behind his teeth, and allowed the older man to untie him without badgering him for answers.
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The Limits of Denial