Choke [Hisagi x Kira]
Title: Choke
Pairing: Hisagi Shuuhei x Kira Izuru
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: excessive swearing, m/m sex and asphyxiation
Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach, I only steal its characters so I can go on perverted conquests via fan fics. Also, all characters involved in sexual situations are fictional and above the legal age of consent in the state of California, regardless of what age these characters may be in the material they are derived from.
A/N: This fic is inspired by two things: a dream I had a couple of nights ago in which I was choking, and a song tilted "Choke" by Hybrid. It's a track that I put on a Hisagi Shuuhei playlist of mine, so I figured that I'd make this fic about him. You can listen to the song here while reading this fic, if you're so inclined. The song has a dream quality to me, so I wanted this fic to have the same air to it. Kind of like a "waking dream" -- what you're experiencing feels real but it really isn't, and vice versa it doesn't feel real when it really is. If that makes any sense, lol.
Choke
You choke it but you know
It comes back when you're sleeping
Cuts you in the dark
Burn
The city is too bright
I'll stay here with my secrets
Until it fades to dust
Sink
Into this storm again
Cold and disconnected
We've opened every door
Burn
The city is too bright
I'll stay here with my secrets
Until it fades to dust
I'll stay here with my secrets. . . -- "Choke" by Hybrid
Hisagi Shuuhei had learned many things about trust from his old captain. Or, if he didn't exactly learn anything, he discovered what it was to question when he never had before. He discovered what it was to feel uncertainty and insecurity-- seclusion. . .
And maybe those are the things that have him accepting haunted nights with Kira Izuru. He can no longer define the blond -- can no longer categorize him like he may have done prior to Tousen Kaname -- and so he fails to turn Kira away like perhaps he should. The new captain of the Third is an enigma, like everything else has become in Hisagi Shuuhei's life. So he questions. He has doubts, and difficulties deciding just what to feel and what to do about Kira Izuru. A part of him wants to put faith in the blond shinigami but knows better; another part of him thinks otherwise, has already put all the faith he has left in Kira alone, and yet another part of him couldn't be sure either way.
He is just as confused and conflicted over the seemingly frail man as he was over his ex-captain, before that one, fateful decision. And whenever he thinks of things that way, it instantly rouses his zanpakutou. He can hear Kazeshini's angry voice hissing in the back of his mind: dumb fucker, you saw where your pussy trust got you before, didn't you? Stabbed in the gut and kicked off a fuckin' building, you stupid-ass bitch. Gonna let that happen again? Gonna let this fucker close enough to kill you like that other bastard almost did? Dammit, pull your head out of your fucking ass and kill him! KILL HIM, you worthlessnogoodsonuva--
And when the spirit's irate voice escalates to such a point that his words are no longer intelligible, Shuuhei gladly redirects his attention; his dark, worn eyes fixed on the flaxen-haired shinigami leaning in his doorway. Kira Izuru, with the front of his black shihakushou loosened to his navel, revealing a large expanse of smooth, pale skin. His frozen eyes are lazy (and looking as tired as Shuuhei feels), while his short, blond brows that are forever furrowed serve as a contrast to his softly smiling mouth.
Can't pull your head out of your ass because you can't stop wishing it was something else, can you? Stupid fuck, I bet you dream of his dick being that big, don't you? Tch, I might as well dream the same fuckin' thing. I hope it's big enough that you bleed out from your ass after he fucks you open like--
Shuuhei's brows furrow faintly, his fingers tightening around the writing utensil in his hand as he listens to Kazeshini's rabid, enraged mutterings. Sometimes he really believes that the zanpakutou spirit is the keeper of his own personal hell, the thing's endless insults and curses uttered like demonic chants meant to condemn him.
And sometimes he wonders if Kira is another keeper of that same hell, with that punishing sword of an executioner. Visiting Shuuhei sporadically, from the days that their captains first betrayed Soul Society to now: months after the war has ended; months into their turn at being captains.
"You know I'm the only one who can understand without you saying it out loud, Hisagi-san," Kira states quietly, leaning over Shuuhei's desk with his pale hands flat against the polished surface. Yes, his blue eyes are definitely tired, but still alert, like they always are. In this setting (and beneath this kind of lighting) they take on an almost fevered look, Shuuhei has observed. Gleaming and ghostly; disturbed and restless.
And it's on silent nights such as this one that he himself starts to feel like a phantom, hushed but on edge.
And Kira could be right, might be right, probably is right. Together they have become specters in their own varying ways, and because it's just them -- just the two of them that share some of the same haunting memories -- Shuuhei feels that Kira is the only one who can take him in these dark hours. The only one who has any right to, because Shuuhei can't subject any of the others (Abarai, Ukitake-taichou, Ayasegawa-san) to his plight. If he did it'd only make them worry, and he can't stand to have anyone worry over him.
Why?
Because he is his own responsibility.
And he also feels that if he let them know, let any of them try to help, that they'd only be poisoned by his troubles. But Kira Izuru is already poisoned -- already infected -- and in a way that makes him immune, and keeps Shuuhei from feeling guilty.
So he nods simply, then sets his pen down and starts disrobing.
They end up on the hardwood floor, Shuuhei on his back and Kira straddling his waist. The blond has ditched his hakama and fundoshi, but the top of his uniform is hanging off him loosely, along with the white of his haori. The long panel of hair that usually blots the left side of his face is pinned up, because it'd been established a few fucks back that Shuuhei didn't like it when he only saw one eye.
Though, being able to see both birthed its own problems, which is something he hadn't predicted. He knows that it's all in his imagination, but somehow he can't help thinking that he sees a flash of red in that left eye whenever it's uncovered. . .
But that becomes the farthest thing from his mind when Kira grabs hold of his cock, holding it firmly in place. He stares at Shuuhei with hooded eyes, the expression of his face characteristically empty as he sinks down. His brow puckers and his mouth twists minutely, the only visible signs of his discomfort, along with a brief pause from his slim hips. And then he presses cool hands to Shuuhei's chest, letting his fingers fan over scarred flesh as he pushes all the way down. With the brunet buried deep inside, Kira exhales long and low, and Shuuhei answers him with a ragged, broken sigh. He wets his lips with a quick tongue and turns his gaze towards the ceiling, barely seeing past the heavy curtain that his eyelashes have become. Kira's hands slide down his chest to rest over his quivering abs, and in their wake his overheating skin is left feeling chilled.
Neither of them breath a word or even look at each other when the blond starts moving. His hips jerk back and forth in quick succession, but every thrust is measured, leaving Shuuhei panting harder with each push and pull. He can feel himself throbbing inside the blond's tight, velvet heat -- red-hot, rock-hard, and aching. . . His feet curl and unfurl tensely, taut legs twitching, his hands grappling at the floor and then, at Kira's legs. Dark eyes give an uncoordinated roll, drunk with his building need to come, until finally they fall on the shinigami rocking in his lap. For a moment he just stares, watches a normally ashen face that is flushed with arousal; listens to short, quiet gasps, and notes eyes that are shut in what looks to be a combination of agony and ecstasy. . .
Kira's head lolls back and he groans, splaying his hands over Shuuhei's torso and twisting his hips in a rough circle. It wrings a resonant moan from the scarred shinigami, whose hips buck violently in response. Blue eyes open a crack, and Shuuhei stares at a Kira that he's rarely lucky enough to see. As many times as they've fucked since the war first started, he's gotten used to the blond's disquieting gaze during sex. The abnormally clear stare, even in the deepest throes of passion. Always unnerving, but something that Shuuhei had come to tolerate, for whatever reason. . .
Now, though, Kira's eyes look as dark as Shuuhei knows his must be. Dark, and hazy, and heavy-lidded. . . Bright with an awareness that the blond shinigami always seemed to posses, but at the same time. . . hiding something, some obscure emotion that flickers just beyond Shuuhei's comprehension. He wonders if it's a fault of his own (or if it's a fault of Kira's) that he takes the man's hollow eyes in stride, while being wary of even a glimmer of feeling.
But it's really no time for trying to figure it out, especially when Kira's hands slide up to close around Shuuhei's throat. They overlap, two sets of four fingers reaching around to the brunet's nape, while twin thumbs press against each pulse point beneath his jaw. Kira doesn't put much pressure into his hold -- not yet -- but the position of his hands is tight enough on its own. Shuuhei inhales reflexively, a quick intake of breath, his eyes widening a fraction (and his pupils too, probably). His own fingers bite into the blond's pale thighs, and he's sure that Kira will have bruises the shape of fingertips come morning.
"Have you ever thought about what might happen if that choker backfired...?" Kira suddenly murmurs, leaning down slightly, closer to Shuuhei while his grip tightens. "What if. . .it triggered while you were still wearing it. . .? I don't think. . . I don't think it'd be strong enough to kill you, but what if it were. . .? What if it could separate your head from the rest of you, Hisagi-san. . .? You. . .you would like that, wouldn't you. . .? It would be so sudden. . .and so unexpected. . .that you wouldn't even have time to realize what happened. . . You wouldn't have time to feel the pain. . .or the fear."
Shuuhei almost gasps at that whispered word, but it snags on the hands around his throat. The blond shinigami stares at him past hoary lashes as he moves, grinding down with increasing fervor, those slim hips as enthusiastic as the fingers that rob Shuuhei of air.
"No fear. . ." Kira murmurs again, voice incredibly soft. He leans even closer so their lips brush, pale brows furrowing against a quiet moan that their fucking coaxes. "Not like the fear you'd feel from being torn apart. . .limb for limb. . .by a. . .hollow. . ."
The last word exhaled on a shaky breath, then followed by a throaty groan. Shuuhei might have sobbed quietly, if it wasn't for the iron grip clasping his neck, pushing on his windpipe and threatening to break the delicate column before he ever truly suffocates. So instead he settles for a strangled, faint, faint, faint grunt, hanging lifelessly from an open mouth. His blown eyes start to roll, his pulse slowing to a dull, listless thump beneath heated flesh -- hips arching helplessly to the other man.
And just when he thinks that he might fall into that waiting shadow for good, he hears a shouted, "Hey, Fuck-face!" from the hallway outside the shouji. Before he has time to register it (let alone react) the screen door is thrown open. Dark eyes that are clouded dart in that direction, and Shuuhei is met with the sight of Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez. The ex-Espada doesn't even look at him, just stares at the blond who's riding him roughly, blue eyes wide and brows furrowed. Shuuhei sees the man's lip curl in an angry sneer, and hears a hissed growl before the gigai specialist of the Twelfth Division comes into view. The horned shinigami is standing to the side behind Grimmjow, a cigarette held close to his mouth but not yet breaching his lips, his head turned in their direction. He stares at Kira too, his face expressionless but his black eyes more intense than Shuuhei has seen them in a long, long time. . .
Akon doesn't say anything, and neither does Grimmjow, but the former doesn't hesitate to push past his blue-haired counterpart. He heads straight for them, and Shuuhei glances at Kira quickly. The blond's rhythm hasn't faltered once, not even as he looks Akon dead in the eye. Then he looks back at the man beneath him, smiles softly, his gaze fogged like mist over a cold lake at night. He gives Shuuhei's throat one more squeeze, before letting go at the same time that he slams his hips back, forcing the tattooed shinigami as deep as he can.
And with the next sharp, wheezing inhale that Shuuhei gasps -- sounding loud and starved to his own ears -- and the blood rushing back to his head, and the feel of Kira clamping down around his cock, damn near choking it. . .
The scarred captain finally loses it, his body convulsing, eyes rolling back in their sockets. He sees black that bleeds white, is quickly overrun by that blinding brightness, sound itself dying out and his mouth hanging open on what he knows to be a silent sob. His orgasm crashes into him with back-breaking and mind-numbing force, and in that moment of coming inside Kira (hard enough to hurt), he feels a stab of panic; equates his climax to other things that set a sense of distress deep in his bones. . .
But the flash of white he saw is swallowed by the black that it briefly dwarfed, and Shuuhei's conscious mind spirals. The last thing he recognizes before he burns out completely is Kazeshini's shrill voice, wailing like a dying, furious animal.
Pairing: Hisagi Shuuhei x Kira Izuru
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: excessive swearing, m/m sex and asphyxiation
Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach, I only steal its characters so I can go on perverted conquests via fan fics. Also, all characters involved in sexual situations are fictional and above the legal age of consent in the state of California, regardless of what age these characters may be in the material they are derived from.
A/N: This fic is inspired by two things: a dream I had a couple of nights ago in which I was choking, and a song tilted "Choke" by Hybrid. It's a track that I put on a Hisagi Shuuhei playlist of mine, so I figured that I'd make this fic about him. You can listen to the song here while reading this fic, if you're so inclined. The song has a dream quality to me, so I wanted this fic to have the same air to it. Kind of like a "waking dream" -- what you're experiencing feels real but it really isn't, and vice versa it doesn't feel real when it really is. If that makes any sense, lol.
Choke
You choke it but you know
It comes back when you're sleeping
Cuts you in the dark
Burn
The city is too bright
I'll stay here with my secrets
Until it fades to dust
Sink
Into this storm again
Cold and disconnected
We've opened every door
Burn
The city is too bright
I'll stay here with my secrets
Until it fades to dust
I'll stay here with my secrets. . . -- "Choke" by Hybrid
Hisagi Shuuhei had learned many things about trust from his old captain. Or, if he didn't exactly learn anything, he discovered what it was to question when he never had before. He discovered what it was to feel uncertainty and insecurity-- seclusion. . .
And maybe those are the things that have him accepting haunted nights with Kira Izuru. He can no longer define the blond -- can no longer categorize him like he may have done prior to Tousen Kaname -- and so he fails to turn Kira away like perhaps he should. The new captain of the Third is an enigma, like everything else has become in Hisagi Shuuhei's life. So he questions. He has doubts, and difficulties deciding just what to feel and what to do about Kira Izuru. A part of him wants to put faith in the blond shinigami but knows better; another part of him thinks otherwise, has already put all the faith he has left in Kira alone, and yet another part of him couldn't be sure either way.
He is just as confused and conflicted over the seemingly frail man as he was over his ex-captain, before that one, fateful decision. And whenever he thinks of things that way, it instantly rouses his zanpakutou. He can hear Kazeshini's angry voice hissing in the back of his mind: dumb fucker, you saw where your pussy trust got you before, didn't you? Stabbed in the gut and kicked off a fuckin' building, you stupid-ass bitch. Gonna let that happen again? Gonna let this fucker close enough to kill you like that other bastard almost did? Dammit, pull your head out of your fucking ass and kill him! KILL HIM, you worthlessnogoodsonuva--
And when the spirit's irate voice escalates to such a point that his words are no longer intelligible, Shuuhei gladly redirects his attention; his dark, worn eyes fixed on the flaxen-haired shinigami leaning in his doorway. Kira Izuru, with the front of his black shihakushou loosened to his navel, revealing a large expanse of smooth, pale skin. His frozen eyes are lazy (and looking as tired as Shuuhei feels), while his short, blond brows that are forever furrowed serve as a contrast to his softly smiling mouth.
Can't pull your head out of your ass because you can't stop wishing it was something else, can you? Stupid fuck, I bet you dream of his dick being that big, don't you? Tch, I might as well dream the same fuckin' thing. I hope it's big enough that you bleed out from your ass after he fucks you open like--
Shuuhei's brows furrow faintly, his fingers tightening around the writing utensil in his hand as he listens to Kazeshini's rabid, enraged mutterings. Sometimes he really believes that the zanpakutou spirit is the keeper of his own personal hell, the thing's endless insults and curses uttered like demonic chants meant to condemn him.
And sometimes he wonders if Kira is another keeper of that same hell, with that punishing sword of an executioner. Visiting Shuuhei sporadically, from the days that their captains first betrayed Soul Society to now: months after the war has ended; months into their turn at being captains.
"You know I'm the only one who can understand without you saying it out loud, Hisagi-san," Kira states quietly, leaning over Shuuhei's desk with his pale hands flat against the polished surface. Yes, his blue eyes are definitely tired, but still alert, like they always are. In this setting (and beneath this kind of lighting) they take on an almost fevered look, Shuuhei has observed. Gleaming and ghostly; disturbed and restless.
And it's on silent nights such as this one that he himself starts to feel like a phantom, hushed but on edge.
And Kira could be right, might be right, probably is right. Together they have become specters in their own varying ways, and because it's just them -- just the two of them that share some of the same haunting memories -- Shuuhei feels that Kira is the only one who can take him in these dark hours. The only one who has any right to, because Shuuhei can't subject any of the others (Abarai, Ukitake-taichou, Ayasegawa-san) to his plight. If he did it'd only make them worry, and he can't stand to have anyone worry over him.
Why?
Because he is his own responsibility.
And he also feels that if he let them know, let any of them try to help, that they'd only be poisoned by his troubles. But Kira Izuru is already poisoned -- already infected -- and in a way that makes him immune, and keeps Shuuhei from feeling guilty.
So he nods simply, then sets his pen down and starts disrobing.
They end up on the hardwood floor, Shuuhei on his back and Kira straddling his waist. The blond has ditched his hakama and fundoshi, but the top of his uniform is hanging off him loosely, along with the white of his haori. The long panel of hair that usually blots the left side of his face is pinned up, because it'd been established a few fucks back that Shuuhei didn't like it when he only saw one eye.
Though, being able to see both birthed its own problems, which is something he hadn't predicted. He knows that it's all in his imagination, but somehow he can't help thinking that he sees a flash of red in that left eye whenever it's uncovered. . .
But that becomes the farthest thing from his mind when Kira grabs hold of his cock, holding it firmly in place. He stares at Shuuhei with hooded eyes, the expression of his face characteristically empty as he sinks down. His brow puckers and his mouth twists minutely, the only visible signs of his discomfort, along with a brief pause from his slim hips. And then he presses cool hands to Shuuhei's chest, letting his fingers fan over scarred flesh as he pushes all the way down. With the brunet buried deep inside, Kira exhales long and low, and Shuuhei answers him with a ragged, broken sigh. He wets his lips with a quick tongue and turns his gaze towards the ceiling, barely seeing past the heavy curtain that his eyelashes have become. Kira's hands slide down his chest to rest over his quivering abs, and in their wake his overheating skin is left feeling chilled.
Neither of them breath a word or even look at each other when the blond starts moving. His hips jerk back and forth in quick succession, but every thrust is measured, leaving Shuuhei panting harder with each push and pull. He can feel himself throbbing inside the blond's tight, velvet heat -- red-hot, rock-hard, and aching. . . His feet curl and unfurl tensely, taut legs twitching, his hands grappling at the floor and then, at Kira's legs. Dark eyes give an uncoordinated roll, drunk with his building need to come, until finally they fall on the shinigami rocking in his lap. For a moment he just stares, watches a normally ashen face that is flushed with arousal; listens to short, quiet gasps, and notes eyes that are shut in what looks to be a combination of agony and ecstasy. . .
Kira's head lolls back and he groans, splaying his hands over Shuuhei's torso and twisting his hips in a rough circle. It wrings a resonant moan from the scarred shinigami, whose hips buck violently in response. Blue eyes open a crack, and Shuuhei stares at a Kira that he's rarely lucky enough to see. As many times as they've fucked since the war first started, he's gotten used to the blond's disquieting gaze during sex. The abnormally clear stare, even in the deepest throes of passion. Always unnerving, but something that Shuuhei had come to tolerate, for whatever reason. . .
Now, though, Kira's eyes look as dark as Shuuhei knows his must be. Dark, and hazy, and heavy-lidded. . . Bright with an awareness that the blond shinigami always seemed to posses, but at the same time. . . hiding something, some obscure emotion that flickers just beyond Shuuhei's comprehension. He wonders if it's a fault of his own (or if it's a fault of Kira's) that he takes the man's hollow eyes in stride, while being wary of even a glimmer of feeling.
But it's really no time for trying to figure it out, especially when Kira's hands slide up to close around Shuuhei's throat. They overlap, two sets of four fingers reaching around to the brunet's nape, while twin thumbs press against each pulse point beneath his jaw. Kira doesn't put much pressure into his hold -- not yet -- but the position of his hands is tight enough on its own. Shuuhei inhales reflexively, a quick intake of breath, his eyes widening a fraction (and his pupils too, probably). His own fingers bite into the blond's pale thighs, and he's sure that Kira will have bruises the shape of fingertips come morning.
"Have you ever thought about what might happen if that choker backfired...?" Kira suddenly murmurs, leaning down slightly, closer to Shuuhei while his grip tightens. "What if. . .it triggered while you were still wearing it. . .? I don't think. . . I don't think it'd be strong enough to kill you, but what if it were. . .? What if it could separate your head from the rest of you, Hisagi-san. . .? You. . .you would like that, wouldn't you. . .? It would be so sudden. . .and so unexpected. . .that you wouldn't even have time to realize what happened. . . You wouldn't have time to feel the pain. . .or the fear."
Shuuhei almost gasps at that whispered word, but it snags on the hands around his throat. The blond shinigami stares at him past hoary lashes as he moves, grinding down with increasing fervor, those slim hips as enthusiastic as the fingers that rob Shuuhei of air.
"No fear. . ." Kira murmurs again, voice incredibly soft. He leans even closer so their lips brush, pale brows furrowing against a quiet moan that their fucking coaxes. "Not like the fear you'd feel from being torn apart. . .limb for limb. . .by a. . .hollow. . ."
The last word exhaled on a shaky breath, then followed by a throaty groan. Shuuhei might have sobbed quietly, if it wasn't for the iron grip clasping his neck, pushing on his windpipe and threatening to break the delicate column before he ever truly suffocates. So instead he settles for a strangled, faint, faint, faint grunt, hanging lifelessly from an open mouth. His blown eyes start to roll, his pulse slowing to a dull, listless thump beneath heated flesh -- hips arching helplessly to the other man.
And just when he thinks that he might fall into that waiting shadow for good, he hears a shouted, "Hey, Fuck-face!" from the hallway outside the shouji. Before he has time to register it (let alone react) the screen door is thrown open. Dark eyes that are clouded dart in that direction, and Shuuhei is met with the sight of Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez. The ex-Espada doesn't even look at him, just stares at the blond who's riding him roughly, blue eyes wide and brows furrowed. Shuuhei sees the man's lip curl in an angry sneer, and hears a hissed growl before the gigai specialist of the Twelfth Division comes into view. The horned shinigami is standing to the side behind Grimmjow, a cigarette held close to his mouth but not yet breaching his lips, his head turned in their direction. He stares at Kira too, his face expressionless but his black eyes more intense than Shuuhei has seen them in a long, long time. . .
Akon doesn't say anything, and neither does Grimmjow, but the former doesn't hesitate to push past his blue-haired counterpart. He heads straight for them, and Shuuhei glances at Kira quickly. The blond's rhythm hasn't faltered once, not even as he looks Akon dead in the eye. Then he looks back at the man beneath him, smiles softly, his gaze fogged like mist over a cold lake at night. He gives Shuuhei's throat one more squeeze, before letting go at the same time that he slams his hips back, forcing the tattooed shinigami as deep as he can.
And with the next sharp, wheezing inhale that Shuuhei gasps -- sounding loud and starved to his own ears -- and the blood rushing back to his head, and the feel of Kira clamping down around his cock, damn near choking it. . .
The scarred captain finally loses it, his body convulsing, eyes rolling back in their sockets. He sees black that bleeds white, is quickly overrun by that blinding brightness, sound itself dying out and his mouth hanging open on what he knows to be a silent sob. His orgasm crashes into him with back-breaking and mind-numbing force, and in that moment of coming inside Kira (hard enough to hurt), he feels a stab of panic; equates his climax to other things that set a sense of distress deep in his bones. . .
But the flash of white he saw is swallowed by the black that it briefly dwarfed, and Shuuhei's conscious mind spirals. The last thing he recognizes before he burns out completely is Kazeshini's shrill voice, wailing like a dying, furious animal.