Mercy Street AU- Master List (4/4)
Title: Painted Over
Characters: Komamura
Timeline: N/A
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Some things can’t be washed away quite so easily.
A/N: Ganjyu App? What’s that?
Things have changed drastically over the years, and for once he supposes he can say it’s all been-more or less-- for the better.
Children are playing hopscotch on the corner and old men are sitting out in front of their apartment buildings on lawn chairs, chatting in the waning afternoon light. Mothers carrying babies or pushing strollers walk idly down the sidewalks and nod to him as he passes-he nods back and allows a smile before he keeps on walking, the gun resting in the holster on his shoulder feeling out of place here now, almost as out of place as the rest of him.
He remembers too many things maybe, of what it was like out here just a decade or so ago.
The signs have a new layer of paint and the store windows are cheery and open now, the walls free of graffiti and sidewalks cleared of litter. The roads are cleaned bright and early every Friday morning by the man that drives the street sweeper, and he always smiles and waves as he passes.
But Komamura remembers this very street corner not so very long ago, and how the chalk markings on sidewalk that have squares and numbers for little girls to skip over isn’t so far removed from the chalk outline that used to be there, the one of one of their older sisters maybe, dead years and years and years ago.
Killed on the street on her way home from school maybe, or hit by a drunk in the middle of the day.
And he remembers store windows all boarded up, doors with rattling iron bars that slid down at night and brick walls pockmarked with bullet holes.
He remembers men who served at his side in the thick of those days and the ones that came home full of bloody holes that didn’t belong anywhere on such young bodies. Fallen comrades in the war to bring peace to this place, and in the end they may have been as ineffectual in winning it as that little Susie Smith who’d had the misfortune of crossing the street at the wrong time in the wrong place.
“Good afternoon, detective!” some of the mothers say as they pass, smiling at him.
“Good afternoon,” he responds and inclines his head politely.
“Busy day?” they ask, and he supposes that no, it hasn’t been.
“Not very. Hopefully it will stay that way.”
“Of course! Well, stop by for a visit any time, you know you’re always welcome here.”
“Thank you.”
And then he turns and continues his patrol though he’s not on duty, eyes vigilant even if the only things lurking about in the afternoon sunlight are kids playing games and old men chatting in lawn chairs.
Commissioner Yamamoto laughs at him sometimes, and tells him that he’s an old warrior-set in his ways. Stubborn.
Komamura supposes that’s true enough, but doesn’t see the bad side to it, doesn’t see why it’s a shame to everyone that he never stopped to settle down, never stopped to live his own life because he was always working on trying to save others’.
He doesn’t see what the problem is when one is always working though, especially when it is for a greater good. A noble purpose.
He pledged his life to the profession of justice twenty years ago, and that is the only matrimonial pledge he ever planned on making.
A sacrifice maybe, of his own selfish happiness for some lofty ideal that he’s not quite sure he believes in completely anymore.
But it’s something he holds onto nonetheless-if in fragments-- because even if justice seems unreal now, the fact that the children playing on the sidewalk today is real enough in its place. He’s still willing to put his life on the line for it in that fractured state, fleeting as it may be.
Someone has to keep vigilant, after all, and Komamura supposes with something like dry humor, that it may as well be the one who no longer has anything particular to live for himself.
A sacrifice for a cause greater than him. For people, worth so much more than him.
Maybe he can’t believe in justice completely anymore- definitely not as much as he did 20 years ago, fresh and young and excited out of the police academy-- but he can believe in peace at least, can hear it and see it and watch over it in this place now, and be reminded that there are things in this world so much more important than his own life. Things that need protecting always.
Even when things are lovely, when things are calm.
They may have painted over the blood that once littered Mercy Street but Komamura thinks that it’s not that simple, can’t help but feel that perhaps this serenity as fragile as one of those hopscotch playing, pigtails-wearing little girl bodies on the street in front of him, that this idyllic life could be shattered in the blink of an eye.
And that’s why, though he feels strangely out of place in this almost picturesque place, he remains, perhaps an ugly reminder of a violent past.
A stone soldier watching over them, stained in the blood of days gone by.
Not something you can paint as easily over as a wall or a sidewalk, he supposes. But maybe it’s okay if the people here are reminded every now and again, of how precious this peace is, how much men like himself had to fight for it, bleed for it, die for it.
The scars on his face can at least serve as a reminder to them that way-look at what we fought for, look at the price we paid.
Just as they’re a reminder to himself, to stay vigilant, to always be ready, to expect the worst.
An old warrior, set in his ways.
Commissioner Yamamoto laughs at him for it all the time, calls him uptight. Tells him to go out and meet a nice girl or watch some football on TV. Relax.
“Enjoy peacetime,” his superior says with a twinkle in his eye. “We can’t be warriors forever.”
Komamura supposes that that’s true enough-can admit to himself that there will eventually come a day when he won’t be able to patrol these or any other streets any longer, won’t have anyone to protect anymore.
It’s inevitable, as most things are.
No one lives forever, after all.
But Komamura is determined to make every day that he is alive count for something.
A sacrifice for a greater good, for people so much more important than himself.
It may not have been a life full of much personal joy, but it’s one he can be satisfied with all the same, he thinks. One he can happily die for, should the need arise.
And as he walks, the sounds of old men chatting and little girls playing hopscotch ring in his ears like gunshots.
END
Title: Take Two Aspirin
Characters: vaguely MayurixAkon
Timeline: N/A
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Mayuri can’t be bothered with the ghosts of someone else’s mind.
A/N: Talked to Sid tonight about the unsavory things medical Arrancar might be required to do. And so the AkonxMayu whore in me bears yet another bastard child. XD Sorry Shini! Sorry Sid!
Mayuri wants to be annoyed but finds that he can’t be right now-most likely because he’s too tired, and this, this is simply ridiculous.
It’s two am and he’s sitting in his little reading chair beside the bed, the lights still off but moonlight through the window enough illumination to show him that Akon is still writhing on the bed, deep in the grasp of whatever nightmare it is that likes to plague him on certain nights, the younger man sweating and frowning and clenching his fists so tightly into themselves that there will be long-lasting sliver-moon marks on his palm well into the morning.
Mayuri remembers that Nemu used to have nightmares when she was small, and would cry when she woke up, running into his room and sobbing noisily and uncontrollably until Mayuri snapped at her to stop it, that it was merely an abstract construction pieced together by her brain in an attempt to make and store concrete sensory information in her memories from her activities during the day.
She’d hiccupped and apologized, looking at the floor and asking, shyly, “Really?”
He’d called her an idiot child to think that he would fabricate such a thing and sent her back to bed with the instructions that if she was to awaken from another such dream she was to cease running into his room in the dead of night and waking him from much needed sleep. The ghosts of her mind were hers to deal with on her own-he wasn’t someone who had the time or energy after a hard day’s work to think about the things going on in other people’s brains.
He couldn’t be bothered with it. Still can’t, really.
Though, ironically, he’s being bothered right now, years after his child has matured into adulthood. He blames that rather distasteful fact solely on the whimpering young man on his bed right now, the one who, some odd years ago, decided that he wanted to force Mayuri into sharing it with him.
Most nights he supposes that’s fine, he only really uses half of the king-sized mattress anyway. But on nights like these when whatever memories plague Akon enough to make him cry out, it’s entirely too difficult to sleep.
A bother.
He’s entertained thoughts of waking the younger man and chastising him for being so disrespectful at this time of night, but Mayuri never has, gets up instead and gets a glass of water and two aspirin from the kitchen before sitting at their bedside, waiting for either the tossing and turning to subside or for Akon to wake up in the manner that usually ends these recurring nightmares-sitting straight up in bed with remnants of tears in his eyes and a shout of “God, I’m sorry!” on his lips.
At that point Mayuri usually snorts and responds with a curt, “No you’re not,” before getting back into bed without another word and going back to sleep.
But that usually takes hours.
It really would be more efficient to just wake the idiot up with a sharp blow to the head he thinks, but for some reason he always waits the dreams out no matter how long they take.
He thinks that might be because he’s waiting for whatever torment Akon is experiencing to run its own course. He doesn’t want to interrupt the younger man at a crucial moment of “what if” during the nightmare and leave the optimistic idiot wondering if the dream might have changed into something different during that one night, leave him speculating on whether what has happened without fail a hundred times before might not have happened that time Mayuri woke him up mid-dream. Knowing the insolent little bastard, if given that opportunity, he would undoubtedly believe that if not for Mayuri’s intervention, he would have had the chance to fix whatever it is that always seems to go wrong every other time.
Mayuri doesn’t want to give Akon any false hope. Best to let the nightmare run its chosen, inevitable course and see if the overly emotional brat can find a way to come to terms with the images of his own mind instead of wondering how to change the possible what ifs for a favorable (impossible) outcome in his dreamscape.
If you come to accept that the pain is inevitable the only thing to do then, is to deal with it, after all.
Mayuri considers it a kindness-one of the few he willingly extends to the brash young doctor who very unapologetically took over a whole half (sometimes more) of his bed some years ago. He leaves the demons of Akon’s mind to Akon alone. Never asks about the dreams afterwards, never says anything about it in the morning.
All he has to offer on the matter really, is a glass of water and two aspirin left on the nightstand by Akon’s side of the bed, for when he wakes up.
It really is an immense bother.
END
Title: Hypocritical Oath
Characters: AkonxMayuri
Timeline: N/A
Rating: R
Summary: Companion to "Take Two Aspirin"- Akon’s ghosts.
A/N: For Sid and Shini again, because these two really eat my brain more than they ought.
He could have made it so they didn’t feel a thing as they died, that they’d have smiled and suddenly collapsed without knowing why. He could have done it that way, have them die out one slow heartbeat by one slow heartbeat until nothing was left but peace.
The people he’d worked for had never wanted that though.
They’d liked the screams of little girls with pigtails loud and bright in their ears, liked to see the pain on the kiddies’ faces as Akon used the ways he’d learned to wield a scalpel over time to make them feel every cell in their bodies die.
He remembers the faces of people infected with disease, has seen men blow out their own brains to save themselves from mere figments of their own imaginations, the lot of them clawing each other’s eyes out and going mad with the things he’d done to them so that they would kill each other and fuck each other and eat each other in variations of that order.
Research. With benefits, they’d told him. If he played his cards right, there’d be benefits.
He remembers that day too, the one where the papers were forged and signed and he’d had to say “I shall do no harm” all official like, so he could put on that white, white coat and hold his clipboard and try not to remember meat hooks and mounds of burning bodies and the fact that one father had held on to his little girl’s body obstinately while the flies ate at it day after day after day. They’d crawled into the man’s mouth, had nested in his hair and buzzed around his ears endlessly. The stench had been so wretched that Akon still gags deep in his throat when he’s forced to remember it.
He tries to forget it often enough, takes great delight in irritating Mayuri so that he can focus on the familiar look of the older man’s indignant face and listen to much beloved snarling exclamations of hatred instead. He loses himself in the other man in small ways and it’s enough to help him forget for a while, when he’s buried deep inside and Mayuri is hissing curses that might as well be endearments in his ear while they make that great big king-sized bed creak and groan rhythmically under them.
Sometimes that’s all he needs in the world.
But there are other times when the nightmares plague him and all he can see are those faces again, the image of that father clutching a skeleton bleeding maggots glued to the backs of his eyelids.
The price he pays for taking the easy road, maybe.
He wakes up with a jerk from those images, can feel a suspicious moistness stinging the corners of his eyes and hear the words, “God, I’m sorry!” escape from his own dry lips as the last vestiges of those old ghosts drift away from him upon wakening and all he’s left with is a pounding headache and the taste of bile in the back of his throat.
Mayuri sometimes mumbles something unintelligible to him when he wakes up, but Akon’s heart is always beating too fast in his chest for him to hear the other man properly over it, and while he feels vaguely guilty for keeping Mayuri up on these nights, he really thinks the other man ought to just wake him one of these days.
Still doesn’t understand why the bastard just sits there and watches him for however long it takes for him to wake up, really.
But Mayuri never complains about being kept up in the mornings afterwards, sometimes doesn’t even shrug Akon off immediately when, after he’s taken the water and the aspirin on the table, he curls up just a little bit more on Mayuri’s side of the bed than his own.
He supposes it’s a kindness- the closest to one he’ll ever openly receive from the older doctor.
“Do you ever wonder what I dream?” he asks sometimes, when they’re fucking and facing each other while they do.
“No,” Mayuri responds flatly, though little beads of sweat are usually gathering at his temple then and his cheeks are high with color, his breath loud puffs of air against Akon’s throat.
“Hn,” Akon says, and clenches his hands on Mayuri’s shoulders just a little bit harder.
“But I do wonder,” the older man continues, shifting his hips just a little bit pointedly, “when you’ll stop all that foolishness so I can get a decent night’s rest.”
Akon laughs at that, smiles against Mayuri’s cheek so that the other man won’t be able to see how genuinely relieved it is.
Some nights are bad, he supposes.
But others, he’s discovered, are getting to be pretty easy to sleep through.
END
Title: Said in Silence
Characters: Grimmjaw, Il Forte
Timeline: N/A
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Forte ignores Grimmjaw.
A/N: For Reki! The request was: GrimmIl: Conversations.
Grimmjaw is drunk-knows it because he can’t move the way he wants to, can’t reach out and punch the bastard he’s looking at right now because he lacks the coordination.
Can’t move right. ‘s dangerous to attack another ‘car in that condition, no matter how strong he thinks he is.
So he shouts, “Whore! Bastard! Fucker!” instead and waits for some sort of reaction, some sort of snide comment or object being thrown at his head in response. Maybe a demand that he leave now before he gets tossed out. Music to his ears.
But the other man’s face doesn’t even twitch at the words, and it’s like Grimmjaw doesn’t exist all of a sudden.
“Asshole,” he hisses, and flumps down helplessly against the wall. “Say something, will ya? You’re so goddamned annoying.”
No answer again, and Grimmjaw grunts to himself, takes the bottle he’s got clutched in his hand to his lips to take a long, messy pull. He feels lukewarm liquid running down the sides of his mouth and onto the front of his shirt-Forte hates that. He’s gotta say something. Most of the time the prissy bastard can’t keep his smart mouth shut.
Especially when Grimmjaw drinks, ‘cuz he knows Forte doesn’t like him drunk, doesn’t like him messy and smelly like some wino bum anyone could find on the streets late at night.
“You’re better than that,” the white-haired man would say with a sneer. “Not much, mind, but still better.
Forte’s such a fuckin’ bastard.
Except now he’s going beyond even that level of bastard-ness, ignoring Grimmjaw like this and what the hell gives him the right to just sit there all silent like and mock him when he’s trying to have a conversation? What a fuckin’ mess.
Grimmjaw just wants to talk, really. Wants to make amends for whatever asshole thing it was he did last night that ended up in this idiotic silence between the two of them. He even brought flowers. Goddammned flowers. He’s that sorry.
And Forte won’t even look at him.
Just lays there. All cold and pale. But still beautiful-- always that.
Silent.
“Hey… hey,” Grimmjaw prods, and while he can’t quite get up, he pushes forward anyway, half-crawling towards the metal table his friend is lying on. He aims for the rung of examining table to help him up but ends up missing it and grabs the thin white sheet covering his friend instead. Pulls it right off, and there Forte is, all white skin and blue lips and that gaping hole, right in the middle of his chest.
“Hey,” Grimmjaw says again and reaches out, touches his friend’s hair. “I’m sorry, okay? How many goddamn times I gotta say it?” he asks, and lets his hand close around the soft, long strands. He stares at Forte for a while and isn’t crying at all.
He stinks of alcohol and cigarettes right now-- remembers all the times Forte whined about it and Grimmjaw had wished the fucker would just shut the hell up and leave him the fuck alone.
Now, he tugs on the familiar hair he’s holding in his hand, not too hard, but not too soft either. To let Forte know he’s here. He’s right here.
“Hey…” he murmurs, softer than before, “why the hell won’t you talk to me?”
END
Title: Idle Threats
Characters: Kaien, Byakuya
Timeline: N/A
Rating: PG
Summary: Byakuya doesn’t like whipped cream.
A/N: For Leia- Request was: “KaiBya- Whipped Cream”. Sorry about this. I started out feeling okay about it but as the day went on I kind of just…pittered out. ;_;
He watches his boss scrape the whipped frosting off of his cake at the Kuchiki firm’s quarter-end party and clucks his tongue, walks up to the other man with his coffee in hand and scoops his finger into the blob on the side of Byakuya’s plate before popping it into his mouth.
“Shouldn’t waste food there, Kuchiki-sama,” he says with a grin and a wink. “’specially the good stuff like that-the company sure don’t cut back on expenses for its little soirées eh?”
Byakuya blinks at him and looks down at the flattened remnants of cream on his little paper plate. “That’s disgusting,” he says, and wonders how Shiba Kaien has managed to keep his job for as long as he has with that overly-friendly, rather impertinent attitude.
“Aw c’mon now. Didja even try it?” Kaien prompts, and plops down in the chair next to Byakuya’s.
Byakuya sighs. “No.”
“Then how do ya know it’s disgustin’?” Kaien says, and sounds vaguely like a chastising senpai. “It could be your favorite thing in the world and ya don’t even know it yet.”
“I know I won’t like it,” Byakuya responds, and thinks that this whole conversation is foolishness. He could be back in his office getting work done right now if he wasn’t obligated to be here for staff morale.
To congratulate everyone on their hard work and successes during another tough quarter at the Kuchiki law firm.
And so here he is. Eating white cake without the whipped frosting from paper plates with little balloons printed on them.
Next to Shiba Kaien, who, for some odd reason, never seems to want to leave him alone.
“You can’t possibly know it without tryin’ it first,” Kaien continues to prod, and pokes Kuchiki in an overly-familiar manner on his arm. “Should try a bite at least. Here.” He offers his boss his plate, where a thick slice of cake with all the topping still on it sits rather forebodingly.
“No,” Byakuya insists, and leans backwards with a vaguely concealed look of disgust.
“Now, I ain’t gonna have to embarrass you infronta everyone doin’ this, am I?” Kaien asks after a moment, waving the cake in Byakuya’s face like if he moves it it’ll suddenly become more appealing to the younger man.
Byakuya’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t take kindly to threats. “I could have you fired for saying such things.”
Kaien’s eyes twinkle. “For what I’ve got planned? It’d be worth it.”
Byakuya arches an imperious brow at Kaien’s display of unfounded confidence. “I find you singularly unthreatening.”
Kaien leans in closer and looks at Byakuya then, very serious. “You have no idea what I’m planning. I guarantee it.”
Byakuya’s eyes meet the challenge- he doesn’t look away. Knows characters like Kaien well enough to know exactly what the older man is thinking. “Does your plan involve getting me drunk?”
Kaien pauses for a minute.
Sighs.
“Goddammit.” He leans back then, and looks thoughtfully defeated, cake in hand. After a moment, he throws Byakuya a lopsided smile. “I’m gonna get you onea these days, mark my words, Kuchiki-sama.”
“Try as you may, but it’s best for you to know now that your continual and utter defeat is inevitable,” Byakuya responds before he thinks about it properly, and it sounds vaguely like a joke-foreign and elusive- coming out of his very own mouth.
He doesn’t have time to think about it though, because on Kaien’s genuinely surprised look, Byakuya almost, almost laughs.
END
Title: Unbelievable
Characters: GinxKira
Timeline: N/A
Rating: R
Summary: For Mei! The request was: “MS!GinxKira- Precious” - Gin can’t believe this.
A/N: Um OOC. TOTALLY OOC. Because I felt schmoopy, leave me alone.
His palm and fingers are sticky suddenly-- just like that-- and Izuru is panting in his ear, wide-eyed, almost as incredulous on the outside as Ichimaru is on the inside.
His smile never wavers though, and he looks at the blonde nestled in his lap with admirable calm, licks his hand clean before tipping them back onto the bed and rolling that still-shuddering body underneath his.
“Maa, yer lookin’ so surprised, blondie,” he murmurs, running his hand down Izuru’s abdomen, picking up little droplets of Kira’s release that hadn’t made it into his hand, putting them to his mouth in a slow, comfortable cleaning. “No good?”
“Hah…I just…” Kira swallows, cheeks still flushed and muscles still quivering as he looks up at Gin and offers a small smile all his own. “I never thought…”
Ichimaru frowns slightly at that, sees how happy Kira is, how he glows right now, beaming up at the silver-haired Arrancar between pants, gorgeous and trusting and…
Gin smashes his lips to the younger man’s impulsively- before the thought can finish itself-- kissing brutally enough to steal all of Izuru’s sweet, happy breath from his lungs. “Don’ think to much now, na?” he urges in a whisper, right against that petal soft skin, close enough to make Kira shake just a little bit more. “Might offend me.”
Big blue eyes widen at that, hasty and uncertain. “N-no, that’s not what I meant. I…”
Ichimaru grins then, likes how quickly he can turn this cute one’s happiness around, to make it soft and meek all over again.
He’s really lovely, Gin thinks, tucking long blonde bangs behind Izuru’s ear before drawing his tongue over a full, panicky bottom lip. “Feelin’ good, then?” he asks, not knowing where that’s coming from really, not knowing why his hands are cradling hips he’d just bruised hours before, why he’s lapping softly at angry purple teeth marks left on a pale, perfect throat.
“Y-yes,” Izuru sighs, arching into Ichimaru’s touch reflexively, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Shouldn’t be, after all the shit Gin’s done to this body, all the blood he’s drawn, aches and pains he’s left on it in their weeks and months together.
It heals over perfectly after every time though, and maybe that’s why Kira never seems to hold anything against Gin. Because the skin comes back just as baby soft, just as flawlessly smooth as it’d been before the silver-haired Arrankar had touched it. And so those same eyes come back eventually too, and look at him the exact same way, with awe and warmth and excitement… happiness. Like Gin hadn’t drawn a single drop of blood out of this body before, not once.
Full of affection.
Drives him fucking insane, makes him want to kill babies or little old grannies or newborn pups or something, yet here he is all the same, gently sucking on a delicate earlobe, the taste of someone other than Aizen-yan’s come on his lips.
Like he lets his other partners get off before him on a regular basis, or something.
It’s damned confusing.
“Aaugh!!”
Izuru cries out, whimpers and moans like it’s the first time all over again, whenever Gin touches him. It’s almost exactly the same really, the same set of reactions from this beautiful, stupid kid. Kira clutches and shudders against Ichimaru desperately, takes every bit of pain with every bit of pleasure and always thanks Gin afterwards, for one or the other, for both.
Hungry lips search for his then, still a bit clumsy but getting better every time, soft as sakura against his cheek. And Izuru always wants to be kissed, Gin thinks, always takes everything else as he’s given but the one thing he’ll go looking for all his own are the kisses, like Izuru’s dying of thirst and Gin’s lips have all the drink he needs.
Like Ichimaru’s kisses are the only thing in the world he asks of the other man.
Gin allows it, turns his attentions from sucking on Kira’s ear and sucks on his tongue instead, moving hands between them because he’s still hard, because Izuru’s getting there again, and fuck it all if this isn’t a little bit weird because of that.
He’d just been getting the kid ready, had him spread and three slick fingers inside a few minutes ago, had been planning on prepping him fast and hard and then getting inside just as quick as possible.
But then he’d dallied, had his hand wrapped around his blondie’s cock and had his mouth latched onto the juncture of shoulder and throat where it fit just right. Izuru had been keening in his ear, sweet and pain-filled all at once, closing his eyes and tossing his head back and thrusting helplessly into Gin’s hand.
Maybe the kid just came that fast. Or maybe Gin had gotten lost, watching him arch like that, smooth skin and wiry muscles all taught and sweaty, smelling sweetly perfect as the older man had worked him over.
Either way it had been over just like that, Gin watching mesmerized as pink-cheeks puffed out for a moment, as eyes had squeezed shut even tighter and a mouth had opened into a small, ‘o’, wordless, soundless shouts and come washing across the both of them seconds later, leaving Gin with a raging hard-on (from just watching? Holy fuck) and a shaking blonde kid straddling his lap, huffing and puffing and looking so shocked he might just die.
And now they’re ready for round two maybe, and maybe Ichimaru’s not as young as he used to be because the grip he’s got on Izuru isn’t as tight as it’d been for round one, his kisses not as bruising and his teeth not as eager.
Slow now, like he’s the one who’d come earlier and not the kid, like he’s the one who needs to take the second time a bit easier. Hips are shifting and he feels legs wrap around him, licks Izuru’s throat and runs his hands up and down the blonde’s sides, feeling the delicate jut of bone there, right under the surface of this too-skinny kid who’s so beautiful Gin wonders if this is what heartache feels like when he looks at him. He hopes it isn’t, hopes it’s just something he’d eaten earlier, too much red meat or something making his insides hurt.
Doesn’t let himself think about it too much, either way. It’s sex after all, just another one of those simple, carnal things human animals need, and nothing more. Doesn’t mean anything, really.
That in mind, he moves to thrust right into this infuriating, amazing body and frowns when his fingers get there first, one slipping inside and finding that it’s not as wet as he’d like. He reaches over and grabs the lube again, the tube he’d impulsively bought after the first few times, when Kira’d looked up at him wearing his brave face and trying to smile the pain away though he couldn’t walk right for a week or so afterwards.
It’d had been so pathetic Gin thinks he’d gone out and gotten the stuff just so he wouldn’t have to look at that expression ever again.
He’d been wrong about that of course, because that’s Izuru’s default expression for things like this. He’d looked at Gin like that the first time he’d gotten on his knees and sucked cock too, nervous and sweet about it until Gin had gone a bit crazy with how nice it had been and had thrust back hard enough and fast enough to make his blondie gag. Kira had just looked up at him with that same expression afterwards though, didn’t mind that he might’ve choked to death because he had his brave face on and would’ve done it again in a heartbeat if Ichimaru had said the word.
Unbelievable.
He coats his fingers with lube again and slides them into Izuru, the kid keening into his ear and rocking back against the digits like they’re not enough.
Gin can appreciate this at least. When the rest of this skinny blonde gets under his skin for everything else and rubs him the wrong way, it pisses him off. But Ichimaru can at least appreciate that Izuru likes cock, likes it hard and thick and deep inside, and that’s not confusing, thankfully enough.
So Gin gives him what he wants after another minute or so, slides right into Kira nice and slow and settles for a moment, feels his eyes squeeze shut at how tight and hot it is, arms straining on either side of the blonde’s shoulders as he lets himself feel it. He sinks in and thinks that never wants to pull out ever.
Izuru loves it too, hooks his legs around tighter like he wants to bring Gin deeper somehow, and then the silver-haired Arrancar’s hips cant and he’s just that much further in, making them both sigh.
Soft kisses against his brow make it furrow and he wants to tell Kira to cut it out, stop that mushy shit, but he’s too busy being fascinated by the sharp, clean edge of the blonde’s jaw to say anything, running his tongue over it until lips meet lips again and his hips are inadvertently pumping up and down, real slow of their own accord.
He opens his eyes for a moment at that; stares down at the flushed body taught under his. Kira looks back up at him with those goddamned baby blues, bright and full of warmth and maybe even happiness, ankles hooked around Gin and arms reaching up to cup the older man’s face.
“Thank you,” Izuru sighs after a moment, making something churn in Gin’s stomach at the way he says it, at the way the rest of him reacts when he hears it.
Gin comes first this time and really can’t believe it now, balls pumping themselves dry and a strangled cry coming from his throat as he does, Izuru wrapping two thin arms around him and coaxing him further into the orgasm, holding him against his body while he shakes.
Ichimaru thinks he wants to vomit when he feels that embrace, thinks that he ought to quit this kid like he said he would last month, the month before.
His fingers curl around a bare, white shoulder instead, and he shoves his nose against sweaty pink skin, free hand reaching down between them and grasping Kira, pumping him until he comes too and Gin’s fingers are sticky all over again.
“Unbelievable,” he groans, and doesn’t mean it as a compliment.
Izuru takes it as one anyway, smiles up shyly at Ichimaru and kisses him again, while the Arrancar is still half-coherent and can’t protest in time.
“C-can you stay again?” the blonde whispers after a moment, the two of them wrapped up in each other all wet and disgusting and too exhausted to care.
“No” is on the tip of his tongue but it’s devoured when he moves in for a real kiss, hot and hard and not as soft as Izuru likes. When they pull apart the “no” is dead and he says, “Make me breakfast,” instead, hating how damned pathetic it sounds, how it makes Izuru brighten like a light’s been switched on inside of him all of a sudden.
“Of course.”
Gin sighs to himself and still can’t believe this shit, can’t believe that playing around with some pretty blonde he met in a bar one random night has come to this.
“Pancakes?” Izuru asks after a moment, running a thumb over Gin’s brow.
“An’ sausage,” the other man murmurs, before rolling onto his back and settling down on the other side of the bed with a sigh.
“And sausage,” Izuru promises, settling happily next to Gin and resting his head on the Arrancar’s chest like it belongs there.
Gin tries to tell himself it doesn’t, and convinces himself pretty damn good too, for the three seconds he’s able to before his hand wipes itself clean on the sheets at his side and moves up to run through silk-soft blonde hairs.
Izuru sighs and Gin scowls to himself but doesn’t stop anyway.
Come morning he wakes up to the smells of pancakes and sausage and feels the sweetest lips in the world wrapped around his cock. Takes him all of a minute to come and Izuru beams at him and swallows like a seasoned pro, doesn’t even ask to be touched back before he’s urging Gin to rise and come eat before the food gets cold. They have their breakfast together and then shower together afterwards too, and Gin takes Izuru over the kitchen counter and under the hot spray of water respectively during each activity, before he calls his driver to come pick him up for work.
On the way there he stops and picks up a prostitute who’s lingering in the morning light looking like she’s just finished her nightly rounds and is too high on whatever her drug of choice is to go to sleep just yet. She smirks at him and kisses him with a look that tells him she thinks she’s the best damn kisser in the world, and he lets her for a second, just to see. When they pull apart she laughs and tells him his breath tastes like syrup and come.
He kills her with his bare hands right there in the backseat of his black sedan before he even thinks about fucking her and when he gets to work not long after, he strolls into his office and isn’t sure if he’s pissed or pleased with himself this morning. When he goes to reheat the cute little bento Izuru packed him for lunch a few hours later, he thinks he’s about ready to scream.
He eats the food anyway, regards the little note with “have a nice day!” written on it next to a smiley face warily and ends up shredding it to pieces so that no one will ever know it existed but him and Izuru.
And that’s it. That’s really it, he thinks. He draws the line at goofy little love notes and homemade lunches. He’s not that guy.
He even manages to pick up his phone and call Izuru with the intent of telling the stupid blonde exactly that, except when Kira picks up and says, “Gin!” so warm and sweet that he wants to puke, all Ichimaru can say is, “Can I see you tonight?”
He hangs up with more dinner plans than he’d wanted to have after that particular phone call and rests his head on his desk afterwards, trying to figure out what the hell to do with himself now that he’s gone and gotten into a fucked up predicament like this.
He has no idea how to fix it, really.
He’s never had anyone this important to him before.
END
Whew, and that's all of them!
Characters: Komamura
Timeline: N/A
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Some things can’t be washed away quite so easily.
A/N: Ganjyu App? What’s that?
Things have changed drastically over the years, and for once he supposes he can say it’s all been-more or less-- for the better.
Children are playing hopscotch on the corner and old men are sitting out in front of their apartment buildings on lawn chairs, chatting in the waning afternoon light. Mothers carrying babies or pushing strollers walk idly down the sidewalks and nod to him as he passes-he nods back and allows a smile before he keeps on walking, the gun resting in the holster on his shoulder feeling out of place here now, almost as out of place as the rest of him.
He remembers too many things maybe, of what it was like out here just a decade or so ago.
The signs have a new layer of paint and the store windows are cheery and open now, the walls free of graffiti and sidewalks cleared of litter. The roads are cleaned bright and early every Friday morning by the man that drives the street sweeper, and he always smiles and waves as he passes.
But Komamura remembers this very street corner not so very long ago, and how the chalk markings on sidewalk that have squares and numbers for little girls to skip over isn’t so far removed from the chalk outline that used to be there, the one of one of their older sisters maybe, dead years and years and years ago.
Killed on the street on her way home from school maybe, or hit by a drunk in the middle of the day.
And he remembers store windows all boarded up, doors with rattling iron bars that slid down at night and brick walls pockmarked with bullet holes.
He remembers men who served at his side in the thick of those days and the ones that came home full of bloody holes that didn’t belong anywhere on such young bodies. Fallen comrades in the war to bring peace to this place, and in the end they may have been as ineffectual in winning it as that little Susie Smith who’d had the misfortune of crossing the street at the wrong time in the wrong place.
“Good afternoon, detective!” some of the mothers say as they pass, smiling at him.
“Good afternoon,” he responds and inclines his head politely.
“Busy day?” they ask, and he supposes that no, it hasn’t been.
“Not very. Hopefully it will stay that way.”
“Of course! Well, stop by for a visit any time, you know you’re always welcome here.”
“Thank you.”
And then he turns and continues his patrol though he’s not on duty, eyes vigilant even if the only things lurking about in the afternoon sunlight are kids playing games and old men chatting in lawn chairs.
Commissioner Yamamoto laughs at him sometimes, and tells him that he’s an old warrior-set in his ways. Stubborn.
Komamura supposes that’s true enough, but doesn’t see the bad side to it, doesn’t see why it’s a shame to everyone that he never stopped to settle down, never stopped to live his own life because he was always working on trying to save others’.
He doesn’t see what the problem is when one is always working though, especially when it is for a greater good. A noble purpose.
He pledged his life to the profession of justice twenty years ago, and that is the only matrimonial pledge he ever planned on making.
A sacrifice maybe, of his own selfish happiness for some lofty ideal that he’s not quite sure he believes in completely anymore.
But it’s something he holds onto nonetheless-if in fragments-- because even if justice seems unreal now, the fact that the children playing on the sidewalk today is real enough in its place. He’s still willing to put his life on the line for it in that fractured state, fleeting as it may be.
Someone has to keep vigilant, after all, and Komamura supposes with something like dry humor, that it may as well be the one who no longer has anything particular to live for himself.
A sacrifice for a cause greater than him. For people, worth so much more than him.
Maybe he can’t believe in justice completely anymore- definitely not as much as he did 20 years ago, fresh and young and excited out of the police academy-- but he can believe in peace at least, can hear it and see it and watch over it in this place now, and be reminded that there are things in this world so much more important than his own life. Things that need protecting always.
Even when things are lovely, when things are calm.
They may have painted over the blood that once littered Mercy Street but Komamura thinks that it’s not that simple, can’t help but feel that perhaps this serenity as fragile as one of those hopscotch playing, pigtails-wearing little girl bodies on the street in front of him, that this idyllic life could be shattered in the blink of an eye.
And that’s why, though he feels strangely out of place in this almost picturesque place, he remains, perhaps an ugly reminder of a violent past.
A stone soldier watching over them, stained in the blood of days gone by.
Not something you can paint as easily over as a wall or a sidewalk, he supposes. But maybe it’s okay if the people here are reminded every now and again, of how precious this peace is, how much men like himself had to fight for it, bleed for it, die for it.
The scars on his face can at least serve as a reminder to them that way-look at what we fought for, look at the price we paid.
Just as they’re a reminder to himself, to stay vigilant, to always be ready, to expect the worst.
An old warrior, set in his ways.
Commissioner Yamamoto laughs at him for it all the time, calls him uptight. Tells him to go out and meet a nice girl or watch some football on TV. Relax.
“Enjoy peacetime,” his superior says with a twinkle in his eye. “We can’t be warriors forever.”
Komamura supposes that that’s true enough-can admit to himself that there will eventually come a day when he won’t be able to patrol these or any other streets any longer, won’t have anyone to protect anymore.
It’s inevitable, as most things are.
No one lives forever, after all.
But Komamura is determined to make every day that he is alive count for something.
A sacrifice for a greater good, for people so much more important than himself.
It may not have been a life full of much personal joy, but it’s one he can be satisfied with all the same, he thinks. One he can happily die for, should the need arise.
And as he walks, the sounds of old men chatting and little girls playing hopscotch ring in his ears like gunshots.
END
Title: Take Two Aspirin
Characters: vaguely MayurixAkon
Timeline: N/A
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Mayuri can’t be bothered with the ghosts of someone else’s mind.
A/N: Talked to Sid tonight about the unsavory things medical Arrancar might be required to do. And so the AkonxMayu whore in me bears yet another bastard child. XD Sorry Shini! Sorry Sid!
Mayuri wants to be annoyed but finds that he can’t be right now-most likely because he’s too tired, and this, this is simply ridiculous.
It’s two am and he’s sitting in his little reading chair beside the bed, the lights still off but moonlight through the window enough illumination to show him that Akon is still writhing on the bed, deep in the grasp of whatever nightmare it is that likes to plague him on certain nights, the younger man sweating and frowning and clenching his fists so tightly into themselves that there will be long-lasting sliver-moon marks on his palm well into the morning.
Mayuri remembers that Nemu used to have nightmares when she was small, and would cry when she woke up, running into his room and sobbing noisily and uncontrollably until Mayuri snapped at her to stop it, that it was merely an abstract construction pieced together by her brain in an attempt to make and store concrete sensory information in her memories from her activities during the day.
She’d hiccupped and apologized, looking at the floor and asking, shyly, “Really?”
He’d called her an idiot child to think that he would fabricate such a thing and sent her back to bed with the instructions that if she was to awaken from another such dream she was to cease running into his room in the dead of night and waking him from much needed sleep. The ghosts of her mind were hers to deal with on her own-he wasn’t someone who had the time or energy after a hard day’s work to think about the things going on in other people’s brains.
He couldn’t be bothered with it. Still can’t, really.
Though, ironically, he’s being bothered right now, years after his child has matured into adulthood. He blames that rather distasteful fact solely on the whimpering young man on his bed right now, the one who, some odd years ago, decided that he wanted to force Mayuri into sharing it with him.
Most nights he supposes that’s fine, he only really uses half of the king-sized mattress anyway. But on nights like these when whatever memories plague Akon enough to make him cry out, it’s entirely too difficult to sleep.
A bother.
He’s entertained thoughts of waking the younger man and chastising him for being so disrespectful at this time of night, but Mayuri never has, gets up instead and gets a glass of water and two aspirin from the kitchen before sitting at their bedside, waiting for either the tossing and turning to subside or for Akon to wake up in the manner that usually ends these recurring nightmares-sitting straight up in bed with remnants of tears in his eyes and a shout of “God, I’m sorry!” on his lips.
At that point Mayuri usually snorts and responds with a curt, “No you’re not,” before getting back into bed without another word and going back to sleep.
But that usually takes hours.
It really would be more efficient to just wake the idiot up with a sharp blow to the head he thinks, but for some reason he always waits the dreams out no matter how long they take.
He thinks that might be because he’s waiting for whatever torment Akon is experiencing to run its own course. He doesn’t want to interrupt the younger man at a crucial moment of “what if” during the nightmare and leave the optimistic idiot wondering if the dream might have changed into something different during that one night, leave him speculating on whether what has happened without fail a hundred times before might not have happened that time Mayuri woke him up mid-dream. Knowing the insolent little bastard, if given that opportunity, he would undoubtedly believe that if not for Mayuri’s intervention, he would have had the chance to fix whatever it is that always seems to go wrong every other time.
Mayuri doesn’t want to give Akon any false hope. Best to let the nightmare run its chosen, inevitable course and see if the overly emotional brat can find a way to come to terms with the images of his own mind instead of wondering how to change the possible what ifs for a favorable (impossible) outcome in his dreamscape.
If you come to accept that the pain is inevitable the only thing to do then, is to deal with it, after all.
Mayuri considers it a kindness-one of the few he willingly extends to the brash young doctor who very unapologetically took over a whole half (sometimes more) of his bed some years ago. He leaves the demons of Akon’s mind to Akon alone. Never asks about the dreams afterwards, never says anything about it in the morning.
All he has to offer on the matter really, is a glass of water and two aspirin left on the nightstand by Akon’s side of the bed, for when he wakes up.
It really is an immense bother.
END
Title: Hypocritical Oath
Characters: AkonxMayuri
Timeline: N/A
Rating: R
Summary: Companion to "Take Two Aspirin"- Akon’s ghosts.
A/N: For Sid and Shini again, because these two really eat my brain more than they ought.
He could have made it so they didn’t feel a thing as they died, that they’d have smiled and suddenly collapsed without knowing why. He could have done it that way, have them die out one slow heartbeat by one slow heartbeat until nothing was left but peace.
The people he’d worked for had never wanted that though.
They’d liked the screams of little girls with pigtails loud and bright in their ears, liked to see the pain on the kiddies’ faces as Akon used the ways he’d learned to wield a scalpel over time to make them feel every cell in their bodies die.
He remembers the faces of people infected with disease, has seen men blow out their own brains to save themselves from mere figments of their own imaginations, the lot of them clawing each other’s eyes out and going mad with the things he’d done to them so that they would kill each other and fuck each other and eat each other in variations of that order.
Research. With benefits, they’d told him. If he played his cards right, there’d be benefits.
He remembers that day too, the one where the papers were forged and signed and he’d had to say “I shall do no harm” all official like, so he could put on that white, white coat and hold his clipboard and try not to remember meat hooks and mounds of burning bodies and the fact that one father had held on to his little girl’s body obstinately while the flies ate at it day after day after day. They’d crawled into the man’s mouth, had nested in his hair and buzzed around his ears endlessly. The stench had been so wretched that Akon still gags deep in his throat when he’s forced to remember it.
He tries to forget it often enough, takes great delight in irritating Mayuri so that he can focus on the familiar look of the older man’s indignant face and listen to much beloved snarling exclamations of hatred instead. He loses himself in the other man in small ways and it’s enough to help him forget for a while, when he’s buried deep inside and Mayuri is hissing curses that might as well be endearments in his ear while they make that great big king-sized bed creak and groan rhythmically under them.
Sometimes that’s all he needs in the world.
But there are other times when the nightmares plague him and all he can see are those faces again, the image of that father clutching a skeleton bleeding maggots glued to the backs of his eyelids.
The price he pays for taking the easy road, maybe.
He wakes up with a jerk from those images, can feel a suspicious moistness stinging the corners of his eyes and hear the words, “God, I’m sorry!” escape from his own dry lips as the last vestiges of those old ghosts drift away from him upon wakening and all he’s left with is a pounding headache and the taste of bile in the back of his throat.
Mayuri sometimes mumbles something unintelligible to him when he wakes up, but Akon’s heart is always beating too fast in his chest for him to hear the other man properly over it, and while he feels vaguely guilty for keeping Mayuri up on these nights, he really thinks the other man ought to just wake him one of these days.
Still doesn’t understand why the bastard just sits there and watches him for however long it takes for him to wake up, really.
But Mayuri never complains about being kept up in the mornings afterwards, sometimes doesn’t even shrug Akon off immediately when, after he’s taken the water and the aspirin on the table, he curls up just a little bit more on Mayuri’s side of the bed than his own.
He supposes it’s a kindness- the closest to one he’ll ever openly receive from the older doctor.
“Do you ever wonder what I dream?” he asks sometimes, when they’re fucking and facing each other while they do.
“No,” Mayuri responds flatly, though little beads of sweat are usually gathering at his temple then and his cheeks are high with color, his breath loud puffs of air against Akon’s throat.
“Hn,” Akon says, and clenches his hands on Mayuri’s shoulders just a little bit harder.
“But I do wonder,” the older man continues, shifting his hips just a little bit pointedly, “when you’ll stop all that foolishness so I can get a decent night’s rest.”
Akon laughs at that, smiles against Mayuri’s cheek so that the other man won’t be able to see how genuinely relieved it is.
Some nights are bad, he supposes.
But others, he’s discovered, are getting to be pretty easy to sleep through.
END
Title: Said in Silence
Characters: Grimmjaw, Il Forte
Timeline: N/A
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Forte ignores Grimmjaw.
A/N: For Reki! The request was: GrimmIl: Conversations.
Grimmjaw is drunk-knows it because he can’t move the way he wants to, can’t reach out and punch the bastard he’s looking at right now because he lacks the coordination.
Can’t move right. ‘s dangerous to attack another ‘car in that condition, no matter how strong he thinks he is.
So he shouts, “Whore! Bastard! Fucker!” instead and waits for some sort of reaction, some sort of snide comment or object being thrown at his head in response. Maybe a demand that he leave now before he gets tossed out. Music to his ears.
But the other man’s face doesn’t even twitch at the words, and it’s like Grimmjaw doesn’t exist all of a sudden.
“Asshole,” he hisses, and flumps down helplessly against the wall. “Say something, will ya? You’re so goddamned annoying.”
No answer again, and Grimmjaw grunts to himself, takes the bottle he’s got clutched in his hand to his lips to take a long, messy pull. He feels lukewarm liquid running down the sides of his mouth and onto the front of his shirt-Forte hates that. He’s gotta say something. Most of the time the prissy bastard can’t keep his smart mouth shut.
Especially when Grimmjaw drinks, ‘cuz he knows Forte doesn’t like him drunk, doesn’t like him messy and smelly like some wino bum anyone could find on the streets late at night.
“You’re better than that,” the white-haired man would say with a sneer. “Not much, mind, but still better.
Forte’s such a fuckin’ bastard.
Except now he’s going beyond even that level of bastard-ness, ignoring Grimmjaw like this and what the hell gives him the right to just sit there all silent like and mock him when he’s trying to have a conversation? What a fuckin’ mess.
Grimmjaw just wants to talk, really. Wants to make amends for whatever asshole thing it was he did last night that ended up in this idiotic silence between the two of them. He even brought flowers. Goddammned flowers. He’s that sorry.
And Forte won’t even look at him.
Just lays there. All cold and pale. But still beautiful-- always that.
Silent.
“Hey… hey,” Grimmjaw prods, and while he can’t quite get up, he pushes forward anyway, half-crawling towards the metal table his friend is lying on. He aims for the rung of examining table to help him up but ends up missing it and grabs the thin white sheet covering his friend instead. Pulls it right off, and there Forte is, all white skin and blue lips and that gaping hole, right in the middle of his chest.
“Hey,” Grimmjaw says again and reaches out, touches his friend’s hair. “I’m sorry, okay? How many goddamn times I gotta say it?” he asks, and lets his hand close around the soft, long strands. He stares at Forte for a while and isn’t crying at all.
He stinks of alcohol and cigarettes right now-- remembers all the times Forte whined about it and Grimmjaw had wished the fucker would just shut the hell up and leave him the fuck alone.
Now, he tugs on the familiar hair he’s holding in his hand, not too hard, but not too soft either. To let Forte know he’s here. He’s right here.
“Hey…” he murmurs, softer than before, “why the hell won’t you talk to me?”
END
Title: Idle Threats
Characters: Kaien, Byakuya
Timeline: N/A
Rating: PG
Summary: Byakuya doesn’t like whipped cream.
A/N: For Leia- Request was: “KaiBya- Whipped Cream”. Sorry about this. I started out feeling okay about it but as the day went on I kind of just…pittered out. ;_;
He watches his boss scrape the whipped frosting off of his cake at the Kuchiki firm’s quarter-end party and clucks his tongue, walks up to the other man with his coffee in hand and scoops his finger into the blob on the side of Byakuya’s plate before popping it into his mouth.
“Shouldn’t waste food there, Kuchiki-sama,” he says with a grin and a wink. “’specially the good stuff like that-the company sure don’t cut back on expenses for its little soirées eh?”
Byakuya blinks at him and looks down at the flattened remnants of cream on his little paper plate. “That’s disgusting,” he says, and wonders how Shiba Kaien has managed to keep his job for as long as he has with that overly-friendly, rather impertinent attitude.
“Aw c’mon now. Didja even try it?” Kaien prompts, and plops down in the chair next to Byakuya’s.
Byakuya sighs. “No.”
“Then how do ya know it’s disgustin’?” Kaien says, and sounds vaguely like a chastising senpai. “It could be your favorite thing in the world and ya don’t even know it yet.”
“I know I won’t like it,” Byakuya responds, and thinks that this whole conversation is foolishness. He could be back in his office getting work done right now if he wasn’t obligated to be here for staff morale.
To congratulate everyone on their hard work and successes during another tough quarter at the Kuchiki law firm.
And so here he is. Eating white cake without the whipped frosting from paper plates with little balloons printed on them.
Next to Shiba Kaien, who, for some odd reason, never seems to want to leave him alone.
“You can’t possibly know it without tryin’ it first,” Kaien continues to prod, and pokes Kuchiki in an overly-familiar manner on his arm. “Should try a bite at least. Here.” He offers his boss his plate, where a thick slice of cake with all the topping still on it sits rather forebodingly.
“No,” Byakuya insists, and leans backwards with a vaguely concealed look of disgust.
“Now, I ain’t gonna have to embarrass you infronta everyone doin’ this, am I?” Kaien asks after a moment, waving the cake in Byakuya’s face like if he moves it it’ll suddenly become more appealing to the younger man.
Byakuya’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t take kindly to threats. “I could have you fired for saying such things.”
Kaien’s eyes twinkle. “For what I’ve got planned? It’d be worth it.”
Byakuya arches an imperious brow at Kaien’s display of unfounded confidence. “I find you singularly unthreatening.”
Kaien leans in closer and looks at Byakuya then, very serious. “You have no idea what I’m planning. I guarantee it.”
Byakuya’s eyes meet the challenge- he doesn’t look away. Knows characters like Kaien well enough to know exactly what the older man is thinking. “Does your plan involve getting me drunk?”
Kaien pauses for a minute.
Sighs.
“Goddammit.” He leans back then, and looks thoughtfully defeated, cake in hand. After a moment, he throws Byakuya a lopsided smile. “I’m gonna get you onea these days, mark my words, Kuchiki-sama.”
“Try as you may, but it’s best for you to know now that your continual and utter defeat is inevitable,” Byakuya responds before he thinks about it properly, and it sounds vaguely like a joke-foreign and elusive- coming out of his very own mouth.
He doesn’t have time to think about it though, because on Kaien’s genuinely surprised look, Byakuya almost, almost laughs.
END
Title: Unbelievable
Characters: GinxKira
Timeline: N/A
Rating: R
Summary: For Mei! The request was: “MS!GinxKira- Precious” - Gin can’t believe this.
A/N: Um OOC. TOTALLY OOC. Because I felt schmoopy, leave me alone.
His palm and fingers are sticky suddenly-- just like that-- and Izuru is panting in his ear, wide-eyed, almost as incredulous on the outside as Ichimaru is on the inside.
His smile never wavers though, and he looks at the blonde nestled in his lap with admirable calm, licks his hand clean before tipping them back onto the bed and rolling that still-shuddering body underneath his.
“Maa, yer lookin’ so surprised, blondie,” he murmurs, running his hand down Izuru’s abdomen, picking up little droplets of Kira’s release that hadn’t made it into his hand, putting them to his mouth in a slow, comfortable cleaning. “No good?”
“Hah…I just…” Kira swallows, cheeks still flushed and muscles still quivering as he looks up at Gin and offers a small smile all his own. “I never thought…”
Ichimaru frowns slightly at that, sees how happy Kira is, how he glows right now, beaming up at the silver-haired Arrancar between pants, gorgeous and trusting and…
Gin smashes his lips to the younger man’s impulsively- before the thought can finish itself-- kissing brutally enough to steal all of Izuru’s sweet, happy breath from his lungs. “Don’ think to much now, na?” he urges in a whisper, right against that petal soft skin, close enough to make Kira shake just a little bit more. “Might offend me.”
Big blue eyes widen at that, hasty and uncertain. “N-no, that’s not what I meant. I…”
Ichimaru grins then, likes how quickly he can turn this cute one’s happiness around, to make it soft and meek all over again.
He’s really lovely, Gin thinks, tucking long blonde bangs behind Izuru’s ear before drawing his tongue over a full, panicky bottom lip. “Feelin’ good, then?” he asks, not knowing where that’s coming from really, not knowing why his hands are cradling hips he’d just bruised hours before, why he’s lapping softly at angry purple teeth marks left on a pale, perfect throat.
“Y-yes,” Izuru sighs, arching into Ichimaru’s touch reflexively, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Shouldn’t be, after all the shit Gin’s done to this body, all the blood he’s drawn, aches and pains he’s left on it in their weeks and months together.
It heals over perfectly after every time though, and maybe that’s why Kira never seems to hold anything against Gin. Because the skin comes back just as baby soft, just as flawlessly smooth as it’d been before the silver-haired Arrankar had touched it. And so those same eyes come back eventually too, and look at him the exact same way, with awe and warmth and excitement… happiness. Like Gin hadn’t drawn a single drop of blood out of this body before, not once.
Full of affection.
Drives him fucking insane, makes him want to kill babies or little old grannies or newborn pups or something, yet here he is all the same, gently sucking on a delicate earlobe, the taste of someone other than Aizen-yan’s come on his lips.
Like he lets his other partners get off before him on a regular basis, or something.
It’s damned confusing.
“Aaugh!!”
Izuru cries out, whimpers and moans like it’s the first time all over again, whenever Gin touches him. It’s almost exactly the same really, the same set of reactions from this beautiful, stupid kid. Kira clutches and shudders against Ichimaru desperately, takes every bit of pain with every bit of pleasure and always thanks Gin afterwards, for one or the other, for both.
Hungry lips search for his then, still a bit clumsy but getting better every time, soft as sakura against his cheek. And Izuru always wants to be kissed, Gin thinks, always takes everything else as he’s given but the one thing he’ll go looking for all his own are the kisses, like Izuru’s dying of thirst and Gin’s lips have all the drink he needs.
Like Ichimaru’s kisses are the only thing in the world he asks of the other man.
Gin allows it, turns his attentions from sucking on Kira’s ear and sucks on his tongue instead, moving hands between them because he’s still hard, because Izuru’s getting there again, and fuck it all if this isn’t a little bit weird because of that.
He’d just been getting the kid ready, had him spread and three slick fingers inside a few minutes ago, had been planning on prepping him fast and hard and then getting inside just as quick as possible.
But then he’d dallied, had his hand wrapped around his blondie’s cock and had his mouth latched onto the juncture of shoulder and throat where it fit just right. Izuru had been keening in his ear, sweet and pain-filled all at once, closing his eyes and tossing his head back and thrusting helplessly into Gin’s hand.
Maybe the kid just came that fast. Or maybe Gin had gotten lost, watching him arch like that, smooth skin and wiry muscles all taught and sweaty, smelling sweetly perfect as the older man had worked him over.
Either way it had been over just like that, Gin watching mesmerized as pink-cheeks puffed out for a moment, as eyes had squeezed shut even tighter and a mouth had opened into a small, ‘o’, wordless, soundless shouts and come washing across the both of them seconds later, leaving Gin with a raging hard-on (from just watching? Holy fuck) and a shaking blonde kid straddling his lap, huffing and puffing and looking so shocked he might just die.
And now they’re ready for round two maybe, and maybe Ichimaru’s not as young as he used to be because the grip he’s got on Izuru isn’t as tight as it’d been for round one, his kisses not as bruising and his teeth not as eager.
Slow now, like he’s the one who’d come earlier and not the kid, like he’s the one who needs to take the second time a bit easier. Hips are shifting and he feels legs wrap around him, licks Izuru’s throat and runs his hands up and down the blonde’s sides, feeling the delicate jut of bone there, right under the surface of this too-skinny kid who’s so beautiful Gin wonders if this is what heartache feels like when he looks at him. He hopes it isn’t, hopes it’s just something he’d eaten earlier, too much red meat or something making his insides hurt.
Doesn’t let himself think about it too much, either way. It’s sex after all, just another one of those simple, carnal things human animals need, and nothing more. Doesn’t mean anything, really.
That in mind, he moves to thrust right into this infuriating, amazing body and frowns when his fingers get there first, one slipping inside and finding that it’s not as wet as he’d like. He reaches over and grabs the lube again, the tube he’d impulsively bought after the first few times, when Kira’d looked up at him wearing his brave face and trying to smile the pain away though he couldn’t walk right for a week or so afterwards.
It’d had been so pathetic Gin thinks he’d gone out and gotten the stuff just so he wouldn’t have to look at that expression ever again.
He’d been wrong about that of course, because that’s Izuru’s default expression for things like this. He’d looked at Gin like that the first time he’d gotten on his knees and sucked cock too, nervous and sweet about it until Gin had gone a bit crazy with how nice it had been and had thrust back hard enough and fast enough to make his blondie gag. Kira had just looked up at him with that same expression afterwards though, didn’t mind that he might’ve choked to death because he had his brave face on and would’ve done it again in a heartbeat if Ichimaru had said the word.
Unbelievable.
He coats his fingers with lube again and slides them into Izuru, the kid keening into his ear and rocking back against the digits like they’re not enough.
Gin can appreciate this at least. When the rest of this skinny blonde gets under his skin for everything else and rubs him the wrong way, it pisses him off. But Ichimaru can at least appreciate that Izuru likes cock, likes it hard and thick and deep inside, and that’s not confusing, thankfully enough.
So Gin gives him what he wants after another minute or so, slides right into Kira nice and slow and settles for a moment, feels his eyes squeeze shut at how tight and hot it is, arms straining on either side of the blonde’s shoulders as he lets himself feel it. He sinks in and thinks that never wants to pull out ever.
Izuru loves it too, hooks his legs around tighter like he wants to bring Gin deeper somehow, and then the silver-haired Arrancar’s hips cant and he’s just that much further in, making them both sigh.
Soft kisses against his brow make it furrow and he wants to tell Kira to cut it out, stop that mushy shit, but he’s too busy being fascinated by the sharp, clean edge of the blonde’s jaw to say anything, running his tongue over it until lips meet lips again and his hips are inadvertently pumping up and down, real slow of their own accord.
He opens his eyes for a moment at that; stares down at the flushed body taught under his. Kira looks back up at him with those goddamned baby blues, bright and full of warmth and maybe even happiness, ankles hooked around Gin and arms reaching up to cup the older man’s face.
“Thank you,” Izuru sighs after a moment, making something churn in Gin’s stomach at the way he says it, at the way the rest of him reacts when he hears it.
Gin comes first this time and really can’t believe it now, balls pumping themselves dry and a strangled cry coming from his throat as he does, Izuru wrapping two thin arms around him and coaxing him further into the orgasm, holding him against his body while he shakes.
Ichimaru thinks he wants to vomit when he feels that embrace, thinks that he ought to quit this kid like he said he would last month, the month before.
His fingers curl around a bare, white shoulder instead, and he shoves his nose against sweaty pink skin, free hand reaching down between them and grasping Kira, pumping him until he comes too and Gin’s fingers are sticky all over again.
“Unbelievable,” he groans, and doesn’t mean it as a compliment.
Izuru takes it as one anyway, smiles up shyly at Ichimaru and kisses him again, while the Arrancar is still half-coherent and can’t protest in time.
“C-can you stay again?” the blonde whispers after a moment, the two of them wrapped up in each other all wet and disgusting and too exhausted to care.
“No” is on the tip of his tongue but it’s devoured when he moves in for a real kiss, hot and hard and not as soft as Izuru likes. When they pull apart the “no” is dead and he says, “Make me breakfast,” instead, hating how damned pathetic it sounds, how it makes Izuru brighten like a light’s been switched on inside of him all of a sudden.
“Of course.”
Gin sighs to himself and still can’t believe this shit, can’t believe that playing around with some pretty blonde he met in a bar one random night has come to this.
“Pancakes?” Izuru asks after a moment, running a thumb over Gin’s brow.
“An’ sausage,” the other man murmurs, before rolling onto his back and settling down on the other side of the bed with a sigh.
“And sausage,” Izuru promises, settling happily next to Gin and resting his head on the Arrancar’s chest like it belongs there.
Gin tries to tell himself it doesn’t, and convinces himself pretty damn good too, for the three seconds he’s able to before his hand wipes itself clean on the sheets at his side and moves up to run through silk-soft blonde hairs.
Izuru sighs and Gin scowls to himself but doesn’t stop anyway.
Come morning he wakes up to the smells of pancakes and sausage and feels the sweetest lips in the world wrapped around his cock. Takes him all of a minute to come and Izuru beams at him and swallows like a seasoned pro, doesn’t even ask to be touched back before he’s urging Gin to rise and come eat before the food gets cold. They have their breakfast together and then shower together afterwards too, and Gin takes Izuru over the kitchen counter and under the hot spray of water respectively during each activity, before he calls his driver to come pick him up for work.
On the way there he stops and picks up a prostitute who’s lingering in the morning light looking like she’s just finished her nightly rounds and is too high on whatever her drug of choice is to go to sleep just yet. She smirks at him and kisses him with a look that tells him she thinks she’s the best damn kisser in the world, and he lets her for a second, just to see. When they pull apart she laughs and tells him his breath tastes like syrup and come.
He kills her with his bare hands right there in the backseat of his black sedan before he even thinks about fucking her and when he gets to work not long after, he strolls into his office and isn’t sure if he’s pissed or pleased with himself this morning. When he goes to reheat the cute little bento Izuru packed him for lunch a few hours later, he thinks he’s about ready to scream.
He eats the food anyway, regards the little note with “have a nice day!” written on it next to a smiley face warily and ends up shredding it to pieces so that no one will ever know it existed but him and Izuru.
And that’s it. That’s really it, he thinks. He draws the line at goofy little love notes and homemade lunches. He’s not that guy.
He even manages to pick up his phone and call Izuru with the intent of telling the stupid blonde exactly that, except when Kira picks up and says, “Gin!” so warm and sweet that he wants to puke, all Ichimaru can say is, “Can I see you tonight?”
He hangs up with more dinner plans than he’d wanted to have after that particular phone call and rests his head on his desk afterwards, trying to figure out what the hell to do with himself now that he’s gone and gotten into a fucked up predicament like this.
He has no idea how to fix it, really.
He’s never had anyone this important to him before.
END
Whew, and that's all of them!