Title: How deep (is your hate)?
(inspired by lovely @urazen)
Hate is a feeling too raw, too primal – a kind of weakness Aizen likes to exploit. He knows how to provoke it, then use it for his own gain.
He considers hate strategically important, except when he is the one experiencing it.
The memory of his defeat at the hands of Kurosaki Ichigo lives inside his mind like a scar on flesh – indelible and ugly. For him, it works as a reminder – an important lesson. It shows him a new horizon of Shinigami powers.
In a way, he is thankful to Kurosaki for teaching him about the true form of a zanpakutō.
He holds no grudge against the boy.
But Kisuke Urahara… that man is a whole different story.
Urahara tricked him with his clever strategy to fire a sealing Kidō when Aizen was still vulnerable. It worked. He got sealed – check for Urahara. Not checkmate, no – as long as Aizen is alive this game of chess isn’t over.
Aizen broke his seal in a last-ditch effort, using what little remained of his godly power. But Urahara was prepared for that too, and recaptured him. His Shibari, Benihime technique turned out to be surprisingly efficient.
Now his arms are bound behind his back by blood-red ropes of Benihime. His ankles, thighs, and torso – also tied. His position – compromising, to say the least.
Aizen is kneeling before the man who ruined his plans twice already.
Urahara stares down at him – calm and observant – as if checking for the last ounce of Aizen’s transcendence, searching for it in his unnaturally colored eyes. Or are his eyes back to normal? Aizen doesn’t know that. After all, he is reduced to what he was before – a simple Shinigami. No wings, no third eye, no long, majestic hair – he was robbed of his glorious, godly evolution by none other than this insufferable man.
“Don’t look at me like that. Like I’m the sole source of your misery,” Urahara opens his mouth for the first time since the recapture, and instantly makes it sound like it is Aizen’s own fault. His voice is light in tone but heavy in meaning. “You made your choices. I made mine. Can we be civil about it, Aizen-san?”
“Your sealing turned me into a mere object,” Aizen snaps at him, spite seeping through his every word.
Urahara nods, not denying anything. “I did what was necessary.”
There is no apology in his tone and Aizen hears it for what it is: a matter-of-fact statement. He detests the audacity of it. He also loathes the sensation boiling inside his stomach, and the hot waves of anger going straight to his head.
“You endangered the balance, let your soul be rewritten, let the Hōgyoku reshape you beyond your own projections,” Urahara continues calmly. Not quite an accusation. But to Aizen, down on his knees and wrapped in Kisuke’s Shikai like prey in a snare, it certainly sounds like one. “The Hōgyoku rejected you, and you don’t know why. I figured you could use some time alone to analyze it.”
“Mock me all you like,” Aizen rasps, voice low and dangerous. “But I acted while you only ever reacted.”
“You’re missing the point. Tell me, Aizen-san, why do you think I gave Kuchiki Rukia the gigai with the Hōgyoku inside it?” The man asks, suddenly colder – more serious. “The orb was untraceable for over a century, hidden safely at my shop. So why give it away?”
Aizen’s eyes widen – uncontrollably so, Urahara’s logic takes him by surprise.
“You’re a smart man, Aizen-san.” The praise rings false, especially to Aizen. “You must have noticed that letting the Hōgyoku drift back to the Soul Society, and out of my reach, was counterproductive. Unless…”
He doesn’t need to explain any further, Aizen’s brain is already filled with the implications.
“You intended for me to have it,” he isn’t even asking. His mind is fighting back against the crashing disillusionment.
Urahara’s expression doesn’t read as smug, the man neither gloats nor smirks – if anything, he looks thoughtful, contemplative even. “It seems, you were reacting to me just as much as I was to you.”
The line sums it up in the most inconvenient way Aizen can imagine.
He clenches his jaw, holding back his Reiatsu. His mouth doesn’t argue but his ego does.
Ridiculous! Absurd, his inner monologue insists. He couldn’t have planned this all along. That cannot be! He couldn’t have played me…
“Do you know how deeply I despise you?” he hears himself snarling.
It doesn’t sound like him – voice rough, stripped of polish, words scraping through his throat as if they had thorns. Nothing of his usual coolness remains in that outburst. This is what Kisuke Urahara has reduced him to: a raging little man.
“You made a mistake of letting go of your Hōgyoku,” he keeps going, unable to stop himself now that something has snapped inside him. “You know I am correct! The progress is needed! Only those who fear their own inadequacy would hide behind their morals and restrain! I shall stand above them! I am…”
His words are cut off mid-sentence.
Urahara’s hand is suddenly in his hair, fingers gripping hard. The movement is swift, cruelly effective as the palm yanks him forward, and Aizen’s face is abruptly met with Urahara’s crotch.
“I hate to interrupt,” Urahara says with the most irritating, almost jovial tone. “But you’re being unreasonably loud, Aizen-san. I find you more compelling when you’re quiet.”
The hand, deliberately placed at the crown of Aizen’s scalp, keeps him trapped in this position.
He can feel his face growing hot with frustration as his nose is being pressed further into the bulge in Kisuke’s pants. This is intentionally humiliating – this infuriating man knows exactly how much Aizen despises being handled.
The grip holds, firm and absolute. Aizen resents everything about it – the proximity, the heat, and the impossible to ignore scent of Urahara’s hardening cock.
He hates the sheer fact that he hates it, because it means feeling something – and feeling is a flaw.
And worse still, his resentment is slowly evolving into something else. Into something he likes even less.
A strategic thought arrives in his mind: I can still turn this situation to my advantage. If I am his captive, I will redefine the rules. I will act, test him instead. Take away his control.
He can make Urahara want him. Make him beg. Then deny him pleasure of satisfaction. Desire – much like hate – can be weaponized. But it is a risky game. Aizen Sōsuke is not afraid to take that risk.
He opens his mouth, not to protest – his voice would be smothered against the fabric anyway – but to feel the texture with his lips, the warmth bleeding through the layer.
He rubs his face against the groin. Once. With clear intention.
There is a twitch beneath the fabric.
Urahara’s grip on his hair tightens.
“You used to be more… subtle. The Hōgyoku’s influence, perhaps?”
Aizen shuts his eyes and nuzzles his whole face deeper, making it hard for Urahara to hide his growing excitement. All the spite that gathered in his stomach, now twists and swells – filling his guts with the same intensity but different direction. And the Hōgyoku sends a pleasant pulse through him, answering his newly born desire.
Before he can act on that impulse, Urahara pulls him by the hair and forces the distance between them. Aizen looks up: sees the ridiculous hat, the flat expression, and the measuring gaze. Urahara stares down at him – no anger, no surprise – and he feels studied rather than desired.
The hand in his hair releases its grip.
Urahara sinks down to crouch in front of Aizen.
He stills – it is not what he anticipated. Urahara should have been ready and willing, not… this. Whatever this is.
His captor leans toward him, their eyes now on the same level. They stare at each other in thick, hostile silence.
Then Urahara lowers his head, hiding his gray eyes from Aizen completely. “What you did – I mean, your fusion – it is… fascinating,” the words are spoken too softly, almost confessional at their core. “From a scientific standpoint, of course,” the researcher clarifies with a shadow of a smile dancing across his lips.
“Should I be flattered?”
“Please, don’t be.”
With that, Urahara reaches out – the tip of his finger touching the Hōgyoku.
The orb glows faintly, causing a ripple in Aizen’s Reiatsu flow.
He almost flinches at the sensation.
Urahara notices – doesn’t comment. These fingers of his keep brushing the orb – carefully, almost tenderly – a kind of touch that sends shivers through Aizen’s whole body.
“Remove your hand,” he orders, voice steady through effort.
Urahara ignores him, fingernails grazing over the smooth surface of the artifact embedded into Aizen’s chest – or rather, in his soul.
“Oh, don’t be like that. You observed me closely back in the day, didn’t you?” Urahara mutters, almost absentmindedly. “Allow me to return the favor.”
Dipping his head down, the man draws his face close to Aizen’s torso. “What if I do… this?”
“Don’t you dare treat me like I’m your experiment,” he means it as a threat – or warning. “I’m not your… mmhm.”
With a quick flicker of his wicked tongue Urahara tastes the glowing orb.
The reaction is immediate.
The surge of Reiatsu. Not directed outward – not defensively – but inward. As if a non-painful Raikōhō were running through Aizen’s flesh, causing his body hair to stand up.
He lets out a drawn-out sound he isn’t exactly proud of, and fights back the urge to pull away – not like the bonds will allow much movement.
“What are you doing?” he demands, breathlessly, struggling slightly against the bounds. The Shibari tightens, pressing harder – the red energy net buzzes around him, biting into his skin. “What nonsense is this?”
“I was simply wondering, how does it feel when it redirects your own desire back into you. If you wish to report the results, please do.”
Urahara pauses as if waiting for Aizen to reply. When Aizen doesn’t, the researcher resumes with the test: pressing his tongue harder this time – chasing the reaction, experimenting, exploring.
“You have no comprehension of what you’re influencing, Urahara,” he tries not to sound like he is affected but Urahara’s warm, traitorous tongue repeats the flickering move with a deliberate malice, and his composure cracks a little.
He holds his breath, refusing to moan. His muscles stiffen involuntarily. It makes no sense for it to feel this way when there shall be hate, and anger, and loathing.
“Oh, I beg to differ.” Urahara doesn’t even look him in the eyes, gaze focused solely on the spinning energy inside the Hōgyoku. “I have more than a clue. You’re feeding me feedback.”
“Don’t…” He cannot finish it without making himself look weak.
A pair of soft lips latch onto the orb.
Aizen shuts his mouth before a gasp can escape him.
Urahara sucks on the artifact with his full mouth. It takes him a few quick, vigorous licks before he pulls away to speak again.
“Don’t take it personally, Aizen-san. I’ll log it as data.”
That does it.
The fury strikes Aizen like a Kidō blast – hot and unbearable – his Reiatsu spikes in an uncontrolled manner.
He aims to assault Urahara – to show him his place.
Then, something entirely different occurs.
A subconscious doubt: Do I want to stop him?
And before his mind can contain it, the Hōgyoku reacts. Whatever transcendent power he still had within him now vanishes. And so do the remnants of his white, godly robes.
The fabric starts to crumble into pure Reishi and peel off of Aizen like a shedding skin. This leaves him bare, exposed in every sense: confused, embarrassed, and mad at Urahara. He wishes to be above it but his control is slipping as it obviously was from the very start of this encounter.
Benihime’s knots hold him well, burning into his naked skin like tongues of fire.
Urahara pulls away and lifts an eyebrow while taking in the scene. “Well,” he muses, eyes hidden by a shadow of his silly hat, “that’s an intriguing development…”
Aizen knows all too well where this nasty gaze is lingering.
It isn’t on the Hōgyoku.
He immediately rebukes himself for getting excited at this thought.
“How long are you planning to stare?” he taunts, compensating for how stripped of dignity he is right now.
Urahara smiles at him – a small, curious smile. “What do you think happens next?”
“You are a victor,” Aizen teases, handing him freely the illusion of power. “You decide.”
This is not a surrender, although it may look like one. It’s a conscious decision that makes perfect sense to Aizen at the moment.
“Well then,” Urahara nods. “If you insist. I may have a few ideas of what to do with you.”
The push comes unexpectedly – as Kisuke’s palm grabs his face, forcing him down onto his back with no hesitation. He doesn’t yelp, he never allows himself such crudeness, only a small grunt of discomfort escapes him as his body collides with the flooring.
This action puts him in an even more vulnerable position than before, much worse than kneeling before Urahara. Benihime’s net still holds him firmly, humming softly as if the blade herself were amused by Aizen’s misfortune.
Urahara hovers over him – one hand next to his head, the other placed on his torso beside the Hōgyoku. Slowly, he leans down and murmurs: “Shall we begin?” His breath inches away from Aizen’s earlobe – hot and ticklish across his skin.
These nimble fingers of a skilled tinkerer trace the shape of the orb that had brought them so close. After a moment of playful teasing, Urahara starts adjusting the binding. Aizen’s spine arches back in response, his thighs pulled apart by the shift in pressure.
He doesn’t resist this treatment, no – consent being its own kind of dominance.
His mind is made up.
And his cock is hard.
Despite his resentment, he feels the ugly need to allow this man to top him.
Urahara lowers himself, hand reaching down, fingers casting quick Rikujōkōrō. A small ring of light surrounds Aizen’s cock – the grip of the spell feels so right, it shamefully makes him gasp.
“Well, well,” Kisuke hums, admiring his work. “It seems, we’re finally reaching an understanding.”
Aizen closes his eyes. “It looks like we are.”
Perhaps his hatred toward Urahara is not deep enough.
Perhaps their worldviews could align as well, if their bodies can – symmetrical like a pair of elegant equations.
