24 Chips - 23
Theme: 19:00
Title: Stolen Dream
Fandom: Bleach
Character: Hirako Shinji and Sarugaki Hiyori
Category: Romantic
Rating: R
Warnings: Other than the TBTP arc, mostly just language, really bc of Hiyori. And as always, I'm making up their past before the TBTP arc because we don't know about their childhood/academy days/etc.
Disclaimer: Bleach =/= mine, or we'd see way more Vaizard love.
Summary: Part 23 of my 24-piece series of memorable "firsts" for these two.
The first time Shinji made love to Hiyori, it was nothing like what he’d thought it would be. There were no wedding bells, no white dress or gathered friends to cheer as they started a new life together. None of the things he knew she secretly had always wanted and he’d always silently vowed to give her one day.
It was the eve of battle, their last night of peace before their world would be forever altered by events they had helped shape. Before their lives were cast into the cauldron and served up to the great hands rolling the dice. It would be a miracle if they all survived. That was a fact that every single one of them knew, and no one had the heart to try and mask it. For some of them… this would be the last night they would likely spend here.
That was probably the reason why Kensei had, in a rather tender show of feeling, allowed Mashiro to sleep curled up with her head in his lap while he dozed on the couch in the living room. Or why Lisa and Rose had taken some time to themselves to address things they’d never gotten a chance to say.
He had chosen to simply keep to himself, retiring early at around 7:30, holed up in his room and sprawled across his bed with hands behind his head, counting dots on the ceiling. It was useless at this point to have regrets, but some regrets weren’t as easily banished as others. And his thoughts on those same things had been interrupted by a soft knocking at the door. Getting to his feet, he’d made his way over and pulled it open to find - to his surprise - Hiyori’s slight figure standing there.
It said something for both of their mental states that she neither barged right past him - and that she’d actually knocked for a change - or that he didn’t make some smart-ass crack about her coming to his room late at night. They were… beyond that sort of thing now, in this slip of time where moments were really so few and it was hard to justify wasting them on petty fighting.
He’d stepped aside, ushering her in as she’d sat down on the edge of his bed, heaving a sigh. Shinji had expected her to say something, to want to stay up and talk, but instead his eyebrows raised in surprise as she hesitantly reached out for his hand, twining fingers through his before raising her head to look at him, a simple and silent request in her eyes.
Through his own surprise and near-disbelief, he’d understood. Understood what she wanted, and reached out his other hand to carefully comb through her hair as if to verify that it was what she really wanted before leaning down and kissing her gently, pressing her back against the mattress.
It hadn’t been how he’d have expected it to be, no frenzied rush of feeling or demands from her that he do this differently or stop doing that or that he was taking too long or moving too fast or any of the other things he’d always assumed she’d say. Neither of them had spoken as she helped him strip them both of their clothes, silently letting him lead the way, his lips whispering across her skin as gently as he could manage.
She’d only cried a little as he entered her, as slowly and carefully as he could because he knew it would hurt her, knew it was a time when he needed to take his time, and despite the fact that he’d once thought it would be difficult to control himself thusly, somehow he felt as though he couldn’t do anything but.
As slowly as he could, rocking hips against hers, as if somehow they could pause the world, forget everything else and drag this out and somehow halt the flow of time, push back the ever-encroaching dawn that was drawing nearer, get lost in her soft sighs and moans of his name as her arms wrapped around his neck and she locked her ankles at the small of his back.
When it was all over, and she was resting curled up in the crook of his arm, he could feel her bury her head against his shoulder and feel the hot dampness of tears against his skin as she wept, perhaps for lost dreams or perhaps for something else that even he couldn’t understand. She knew, just as he did, that this could be the last time, and in spite of things, he had understood what she’d been offering. What she’d been trying to say. That she’d always intended it to be him, and that she wanted him to help her let go of that childish dream she’d carried for so long. That dream that had faded away in the face of an ugly war.
And he’d held her as she cried, not saying anything - there was nothing he could have said that wouldn’t have seemed cliché - because he knew she didn’t need words, didn’t need empty sentiment. She just needed this right now.
She was gone when he woke up the next morning, her scent in the sheets the only lingering memory of what had transpired, and as he got up to join the rest of them at the breakfast table, it was simple to see that although everything had been altered so completely the night before, they would keep going as always as he was met with the same sandal and insults as usual.
Title: Stolen Dream
Fandom: Bleach
Character: Hirako Shinji and Sarugaki Hiyori
Category: Romantic
Rating: R
Warnings: Other than the TBTP arc, mostly just language, really bc of Hiyori. And as always, I'm making up their past before the TBTP arc because we don't know about their childhood/academy days/etc.
Disclaimer: Bleach =/= mine, or we'd see way more Vaizard love.
Summary: Part 23 of my 24-piece series of memorable "firsts" for these two.
The first time Shinji made love to Hiyori, it was nothing like what he’d thought it would be. There were no wedding bells, no white dress or gathered friends to cheer as they started a new life together. None of the things he knew she secretly had always wanted and he’d always silently vowed to give her one day.
It was the eve of battle, their last night of peace before their world would be forever altered by events they had helped shape. Before their lives were cast into the cauldron and served up to the great hands rolling the dice. It would be a miracle if they all survived. That was a fact that every single one of them knew, and no one had the heart to try and mask it. For some of them… this would be the last night they would likely spend here.
That was probably the reason why Kensei had, in a rather tender show of feeling, allowed Mashiro to sleep curled up with her head in his lap while he dozed on the couch in the living room. Or why Lisa and Rose had taken some time to themselves to address things they’d never gotten a chance to say.
He had chosen to simply keep to himself, retiring early at around 7:30, holed up in his room and sprawled across his bed with hands behind his head, counting dots on the ceiling. It was useless at this point to have regrets, but some regrets weren’t as easily banished as others. And his thoughts on those same things had been interrupted by a soft knocking at the door. Getting to his feet, he’d made his way over and pulled it open to find - to his surprise - Hiyori’s slight figure standing there.
It said something for both of their mental states that she neither barged right past him - and that she’d actually knocked for a change - or that he didn’t make some smart-ass crack about her coming to his room late at night. They were… beyond that sort of thing now, in this slip of time where moments were really so few and it was hard to justify wasting them on petty fighting.
He’d stepped aside, ushering her in as she’d sat down on the edge of his bed, heaving a sigh. Shinji had expected her to say something, to want to stay up and talk, but instead his eyebrows raised in surprise as she hesitantly reached out for his hand, twining fingers through his before raising her head to look at him, a simple and silent request in her eyes.
Through his own surprise and near-disbelief, he’d understood. Understood what she wanted, and reached out his other hand to carefully comb through her hair as if to verify that it was what she really wanted before leaning down and kissing her gently, pressing her back against the mattress.
It hadn’t been how he’d have expected it to be, no frenzied rush of feeling or demands from her that he do this differently or stop doing that or that he was taking too long or moving too fast or any of the other things he’d always assumed she’d say. Neither of them had spoken as she helped him strip them both of their clothes, silently letting him lead the way, his lips whispering across her skin as gently as he could manage.
She’d only cried a little as he entered her, as slowly and carefully as he could because he knew it would hurt her, knew it was a time when he needed to take his time, and despite the fact that he’d once thought it would be difficult to control himself thusly, somehow he felt as though he couldn’t do anything but.
As slowly as he could, rocking hips against hers, as if somehow they could pause the world, forget everything else and drag this out and somehow halt the flow of time, push back the ever-encroaching dawn that was drawing nearer, get lost in her soft sighs and moans of his name as her arms wrapped around his neck and she locked her ankles at the small of his back.
When it was all over, and she was resting curled up in the crook of his arm, he could feel her bury her head against his shoulder and feel the hot dampness of tears against his skin as she wept, perhaps for lost dreams or perhaps for something else that even he couldn’t understand. She knew, just as he did, that this could be the last time, and in spite of things, he had understood what she’d been offering. What she’d been trying to say. That she’d always intended it to be him, and that she wanted him to help her let go of that childish dream she’d carried for so long. That dream that had faded away in the face of an ugly war.
And he’d held her as she cried, not saying anything - there was nothing he could have said that wouldn’t have seemed cliché - because he knew she didn’t need words, didn’t need empty sentiment. She just needed this right now.
She was gone when he woke up the next morning, her scent in the sheets the only lingering memory of what had transpired, and as he got up to join the rest of them at the breakfast table, it was simple to see that although everything had been altered so completely the night before, they would keep going as always as he was met with the same sandal and insults as usual.