꒰ bleach ꒱ › gin doesn’t take too kindly to you trying to transfer squads.
1.6k words ‧ nsfw {dead dove}
“do ya know what lieutenant kira said this morning?”
whirling around in surprise, you nearly drop the entire stack of papers bundled in your arms on the floor instead of the aforementioned lieutenant’s desk. gin emerges from a secluded corner by the door, stepping out of the shadows to shut it with a faint click. his perpetual smile widens at your startled reaction.
“he said ya wanna transfer to a different division—already put in a request.” he pulls a document from his haori and waves it in your direction, smirking when you notice your handwriting scrawled across the page.
his lips curve impossibly further as you remain silent, placing the paperwork on the desk and organising it into a neat pile to distract yourself from his unsettling presence. unease brews in your gut: every primal instinct screams at you to flee, but his venom has seeped into your veins, rendering you immobile.
gin crosses the threshold in a few long strides, slithering into your personal space without a care for boundaries. irritated, you huff as he intently watches you organise the pile, enjoying how your entire body tenses due to his proximity. in one swift manoeuvre, he pins you against the desk with his lithe frame.
you can practically hear the mocking grin in his voice as he says: “it’s rude to ignore yer captain.” he presses his chest into your back firmly, clearly enjoying how he’s obtained the upper hand before you’ve even got a word in.
“i don’t like you,” you finally admit with a scowl. “i don’t trust you, either.”
“s’that so?” he raises an eyebrow at your honesty. “that hurts my feelings, ya know? but—” his fingers grasp your jaw, tilting your head back until you meet his lidded gaze, “—right now, i’m still yer captain. i think ya oughtta apologise, hm?”
despite the mocking lilt in his tone, it’s not a suggestion: it’s an order.
tension hangs in the air, slowly heating with each breath between you. your tongue is heavy with defiance: unwilling to concede to a man with such disconcerting tendencies. trapped between his body and the smooth wood only confirms your distrust isn’t unwarranted.
“my, my…ain’t ya rude today?” gin’s laugh is humourless. his timbre becomes more blatantly sinister when he unwinds himself from you and instructs: “get on yer knees.”
you lower yourself to the ground of your own volition: impatient to suffer the consequences of slighting your captain so you can remove yourself from this uncomfortable situation. with bated breath, you gulp as his hand grasps the hilt of his zanpakutō.
the blade—shorter than the average shinigami’s—reflects the sunlight filtering through the window. when it’s fully withdrawn, the tip of the sword prods your jugular vein. pressed against your throat, he drags the pointed metal down towards your chest, admiring the way the blood trickles from your sliced skin to pool on your chest and paint the neckline of your shihakushō red.
gin tuts. “yer so dirty.” you’re uncertain if he’s talking to you or shinsō. however, he definitely addresses you next. “yer gonna lick it clean, then thank me for it.”
resistance waning, your tongue darts out to run itself along the edge of the steel. the tang of iron accumulates on your taste buds, but you lap it up obediently nonetheless. you wonder what other horrors leave an invisible stain on the silver. hollows, unquestionably—yet perhaps that alone isn’t enough to satiate him? perhaps shinsō’s thirst has been quenched with the lives of innocents, or—your breath catches—even fellow shinigami?
cautiously, you retract from the hypnotic glint of his zanpakutō, licking the remnants of blood from your lips. “thank you, captain ichimaru,” you murmur.
gin ruffles your hair approvingly. “knew ya could be good for me. just needed a little persuadin’, hm?”
the praise ignites a fire you didn’t know was sparking in your belly. it occurs to you then that you like this: like parting your lips to receive his zanpakutō in your mouth—like the taste of your own blood and the knowledge he could obtain more with just the slightest flick of his wrist.
he isn’t oblivious to the tell-tale squeeze of your thighs attempting to quell the heat burning within you. he gasps in faux horror, not bothering to disguise his glee. “oh, yer are a naughty girl.” he pats the wood beside your head. “sit.”
although you oblige, a prickling shame heats your cheeks. “this is lieutenant kira’s desk,” you state the obvious. “what if he comes back?”
“then he’ll have a real nice view of what i’m gonna do to ya,” he purrs.
slipping into the gap between your legs, gin pushes them further apart. with your shihakushō bundled at your hips, he has the perfect perspective of your drenched panties. he hums appreciatively as he tugs them to the side, staring at the arousal drooling from your pussy. absently, he smears your wetness on the desk: further disrespect to the overworked lieutenant kira. he forces him into performing all administrative tasks, and then takes advantage of his absence by having his way with you on his workspace.
“please, captain,” you whine, irritated that you’re only being subjected to his stare instead of his touch.
he ignores your plea, inspecting your exposed sex with a leer. he turns shinsō so the blade points at himself: his hand a tight fist resting against the tsuba. eyes narrowing further, he notches the hilt of his sword against your dripping entrance. you attempt to wriggle away, but his free hand finds itself at your throat with a punishing grip.
“be a good lil’ sheath for me, hm?” is what gin sneers at you before plunging the handle into your tight heat.
you choke out a gasp as the foreign object enters you. clamping your eyes shut whilst humiliation courses through you, you splutter out the syllables of his rank. the punishment of being debased by the hilt of his zanpakutō instead of his cock—untouched and protruding from beneath his shinigami robes—only fuels the shame coiling inside you.
the rough material wound around the handle delivers a strange friction to your fluttering walls. conflicted, your shaking body can’t decide if the burn is pleasurable or painful: regardless, you know you would beg him to keep going if he stopped. it’s so deep and snug inside you. every thrust into your sweet spot has you clawing at his wrist, occasionally slicing your palm or fingers on the blade. in your fervour, you don’t notice the blood flowing from your broken skin.
“yer makin’ such a mess.” gin releases his hold on your throat, but his fingers still dig into the sensitive skin there. “if ya’d left, it woulda been a cryin’ shame, ‘cause i think shinsō really likes ya.” he twists the hilt and the change in angle has you sobbing something unintelligible, your release spraying onto the blade itself—as well as the desk and his hand.
chuckling, he removes the handle from your twitching hole. the sticky webs of your arousal snap as he twirls his zanpakutō, returning it to a regular position in his grasp. he seems unfazed by the wet fabric. “ain’t ya cute when ya cum?” he teases. warmth floods your cheeks.
another moan tumbles from your lips when he spreads your folds with his middle and forefinger, another wave of fluids seeping from you. “thought ya didn’t like me,” he mocks with a small cackle. “bet yer used to wish ya could run that sword of yers through me…but it looks like i’m gonna beat ya to it.”
before his words can really sink in, something cold and sharp presses against your flesh.
with a panicked shriek, you squirm away, but the threat of his zanpakutō aimed at your most delicate parts has you swallowing your fear and stilling quite quickly—too terrified of any potential damage to free yourself from this predicament.
gin tsks at your reaction. “are ya tryin’ to make me hurt ya?” he reprimands. then—the mocking cheer restored in his tone—he continues: “i’m sure yer aware of shinsō’s ability. how fast it can extend…how easy it’d be to just cut yer right in half from the inside.” the sadistic satisfaction he garners from your trepidation only fuels his cruelty. “could kill ya before ya could even scream.”
but once again your body betrays you.
why do you want to be at his mercy? was that previous mistrust—although definitely not unjustified—just misplaced desire? all you know is you want to surrender to his whim: to have him hold shinsō against you and show you just how insignificant you are—how easy it is for him to take your life with his very own hands.
more slick gushes from your clenching hole. gin’s eyes actually widen enough to reveal his lust-blown pupils, surrounded by the faint ring of his icy blue irises. an appreciative rumble rises from his chest as he painstakingly gathers your arousal on the point of his zanpakutō. a gasp catching in your throat, you blink up at him and watch him bring the blade to his lips: his tongue tantalisingly dancing along the edge, tasting your essence with a low groan.
“yer lucky ya taste so sweet,” he rasps, wiping his mouth on his sleeve with a devilish smirk. he slinks closer: his next sentence low with promise, breathy and salacious against the shell of your ear. “lemme play with yer a little longer, hm?”
giving in and letting go ᨳଓ shunsui kyōraku x f! reader
bleach week masterlist | shunsui open marriage collection | main masterlist | bleach masterlist
nsfw / mdni / wc 2.4k
all love stories have a beginning...
"My zanpakutō is … difficult."
Shunsui raises a brow as he pours more sake into your cup, glancing toward the two kukris that lay on your lap, criss-crossed and gleaming in the dim candlelight.
"You finally learned their names?"
"A few weeks ago," you worry your lip, running a finger along the smooth steel of Izanami. "They're very strong together, but with that comes a price." You take a slow sip from your cup, chest heavy with the burden of the information imparted to you earlier in the day. "I can trust you, right?"
Shunsui blinks fondly, lips curving into a flirtatious smile. The smell of burning incense surrounds you, heady and indulgent; he really pulled out all the stops tonight, these small touches adding to the implication of his intentions. "You've been makin' me jump through an infinite number of hoops and I'm still here, aren't I?"
"If my hoops are such an inconvenience, you could always stop jumping."
"I'm havin' the time of my life … I think I'll stay."
You blush, diverting your gaze at his unabashed admission. It's true, you've been toying with him for some time, now … but Shunsui Kyōraku is a known womanizer, so who can really blame you? You're no saint yourself, but deep down you have a sensitive heart, prone to easy fracture. In these quiet nights you share with the man — not as often as either of you would like, but necessary to protect the foundation of your friendship — you find yourself falling dangerously deeper. After what your zanpakutō told you, this only makes you more nervous.
"If their bond is broken … it could be my end."
The atmosphere shifts, mirth giving way to concern. Shunsui's posture stiffens. "Your … end?"
"…Yes." You focus on Izanagi, now, smiling faintly. "They are … lovers. But their separation will tear me apart. Not physical separation, of course, but rather … spiritual."
"How do you … prevent that separation?"
"I don't know. They're waiting for something … to give me more details, I think. But they won't tell me what I need to do."
The severity of Shunsui's expression does not soften. He takes a long drink from his cup before beckoning for you to come closer, trying to chase his frown away with a forced smile. "Lemme hold ya."
"…on the floor?"
"Y'won't accept my invitation into bed, so yes. The floor."
With as much faux-reluctance as you can muster, you cozy up to him on the hardwood, rosy-cheeked with a pounding heart. He's warm, and you feel like a lovestruck child being noticed by a boy for the first time, his breath tickling your neck as he buries his face into the crook of it, facial hair brushing against the soft skin there.
"I don't like all this talk of 'your end' and whatever," he admits in a rare moment of vulnerability. "I like spendin' time with ya."
You exhale shakily, eyes fluttering shut at the intimacy of the moment. You ache with need … have been for over a year, now, ever since Jūshirō introduced the two of you … skin flushed by nerves and alcohol, blood searing your veins.
The easy solution is to just give in to the temptation of feeling his flesh on your flesh … of finally indulging in that fantasy of pressing your lips onto his — messy and desperate and sweet — and feeling his hands skirt over every curve of your body, rough and calloused from long days of training. How would he feel buried inside of you? What kind of lover would he be? Gentle? Rough? Was he the kind of man to whisper saccharine nothings into your ear as he fucked you, or would he devolve into something more primal …. more unleashed?
Your desire is driving you crazy — but the thought of losing him far outweighs it. And the cryptic warning from Izanami and Izanagi certainly doesn't help the matter.
"Y'got that dangerous look in your eye," Shunsui leans back to inspect your face, pressing a thumb to the small crease between your brows, "the one that means you're thinkin' too hard."
Your gaze is drawn to his, unable to break free from its allure. He brushes your cheek, then jaw, leaving a tiny trail of sparks wherever he touched.
"Do it … you know you want to."
The voice is light and melodic: the one you'd grown to know as Izanami. Her counterpart, in a gruffer tone:
"We cautioned you to be careful, not celibate."
"I wanna kiss ya," Shunsui announces, as if it were some big secret. He's shameless in his admission, but his cheeks are tinged pink, hinting at a sensitive counterpart to his typical bravado. "Not just want … I need to. Will ya let me this time?"
"Do it…"
Izanami's urging is ultimately what gives you the courage to accept the man's affections. You're practically there already — in his arms, bodies flush … certainly not a position two friends would fall into.
Shunsui takes your silence and the timid stroke of your thumb along his forearm as a go-ahead. With much restraint — because if he didn't, he'd be buried to the hilt inside of you within the next thirty seconds — he cups your face with both hands and guides your lips to his.
They're soft, molding against yours firmly: without hesitation, without that usual playfulness he exhibits. It's intense and raw, surrendering into something more desperate as you start to kiss back with an equal hunger. A delicious moan forms in the back of his throat, and you quickly decide that you'll do everything you can to hear that noise forever.
He's the one to break contact first, forehead leaned against yours, noses brushing. "Now can I take ya to bed?" he teases, "unless you wanna do this on the floor."
"Bed," you agree, breathless as he scoops you up into his arms, showing off that strength everyone fawns over in the academy as he pushes off the ground. In his hold you're no more than a weightless bundle of wanting limbs, and as he lowers you onto the soft mattress, his skin affixes permanently onto your own, stuck there for as long as time and responsibilities would allow.
He's on top of you, now, kissing you again — clashing tongues and teeth — fingers inching down to the belt of your hakama, fiddling with the knotted fabric. In turn you slide off his shirt, and before you know it both of your bodies are completely exposed to each other for the first time, clothing discarded in a messy pile to the side of the bed.
The first thing your eyes are drawn to is his cock: a monstrous thing, with a flushed, mushroomed tip, shiny with precum, and a girth that requires two hands to fully grasp. Thick veins bulge down an endless shaft of velvety skin, making your eyes widen in both awe and apprehension.
A thumb presses to the underside of your chin, lifting your gaze back to his; heavy-lidded and adoring. "You're beautiful," he breathes, kissing you once more, free hand brushing up against your collarbone before it dips down to your breasts, kneading them, making you arch into his touch. His mouth follows, capturing a nipple deftly and rolling his tongue across it before switching to the other, giving each one equal attention. His hands continue to explore, running down your sides and to the slick flesh of your inner thighs, fingers tracing the outline of your drooling cunt, thumb dipping into the slit before circling your clit, swirling your syrupy desire over it in dizzying circles. Your lips collide again as he swallows your moan; he probes against your twitchy entrance, scissoring his fingers inside, huffing at the resistance — at how tight you feel, just from this — cock throbbing at the thought of how much you'll have to stretch to accommodate him … at how full you'll be of him … at how he'll make sure you take every last inch, even if it takes all night to get you there.
The man's face soon disappears between your thighs; his fingers — three of them, now — pump into you languidly as his tongue laps at the rest, devouring you, unrelenting as you spasm and whine beneath him. It's only after he he brings you to your first orgasm that he breaks away to breath, mouth slick, the juices smeared onto his chin a testament to his skill. "Shunsui…" you gasp, words faltering as he starts to slide a fourth finger into your heat and ducks down to reattach his mouth to your sex, "I-I'm ready, I want you …"
"You have me," he mumbles around your puffy clit, the vibration of his baritone jolting each nerve ending to life.
"N-no I mean, I want your … mmf — ah — want it all —"
He smirks against your soaked flesh. "Y'think you can take me?"
"Y-yeah…"
"Whaa, my fingers aren't enough?"
"The-yy're good!! Bu—ahhmm—" his fingers increase their pace, twisting and turning and pushing against your tight, slippery walls, feeling each ridge and slope, "—wanna f-feel allll—"
"Can't even form a sentence … I don' think you can handle it," he grunts, "c'mon, convince me. Whaddya want? Use your words."
Little tears form in the corners of your eyes as you try to pull yourself together, mouth watering as his fat, leaky tip nudges against the flesh beneath your knee, leaving a sticky trail of what you so desperately want inside of you. "Please," you whine softly, "please, I wanna fe-eel you inside…"
"Feel what inside?"
"Your … ah — cock —" your lashes flutter shyly at the vulgarity despite being spread open by his fingers. His chest, dusted with dark hair, flushes a pretty pink at your words. "Please…"
"How can I say no when y'r askin' so nice?" he removes his fingers, heavy, swollen balls tightening at the sight of the strings of slick that connect you, only breaking when he pops his fingers into his mouth, savoring the taste.
You start to question your decision when he grips his thick base and taps his cockhead at your entrance, swirling it in your sticky release before sliiiding up, balls snug against your clit as his length lays flat on your stomach, revealing just how large he is compared to you. "Where's it gonna go?" He asks to no one in particular, pinning down his lower lip with a canine as he moves his tip back to your cunt. "Y'ready?"
His pupils have bullied away the pretty grey of his irises, blown and greedy as they absorb the sight of your tight hole sucking him in. The first few inches are delicious, his preparations and your juices lulling you into a false sense of security; but, your confidence shatters when the pleasurable stretch gives way to discomfort … and he's only a third of the way in. Your moans stutter to a halt upon this revelation, neck craned to observe the obscene sight of his cock wedged into you. "Shit, y'gotta relax," he massages his shaft as he continues to notch into you slowly, watching the way your arousal and prior release bubbles around his intruding flesh. "M'not gonna be able t'last with ya squeezin' me like this."
"'It's … it's too big…" your lower lip wobbles at the failure of not being able to take him fully, embarrassed and disappointed.
"Nuh-uh, y'r doin' good. Got plenty'a room left." To make his point, he ruts forward another inch, making you squeal in a combination of pain and pleasure, but mostly the former. "Just gotta — take it. I know y'can … this pretty pussy was made … for me. It's gotta fit."
He speaks with such certainty that you don't dare question him. You try to relax your muscles, breath shallow and thighs trembling as he continues. "Thaaaat's it. Just lemme in…."
Stomach flipping at his praise, your hands claw at the firm flesh of his shifting hips. He nips at your ears and neck and lips, trying to distract you with sweet words and kisses, all the while sinking deeper into your vice-like heat. All air is pushed from your lungs once his hips are pressed flat to yours; your chest rises and falls in an uncertain staccato, wondering what organs have been misplaced to accommodate him … wondering when he'll start to move, because now that he's entered you fully, you're not only overwhelmed physically, but emotionally.
"Squeezin' me so tight," he whispers, "how does it feel?"
"Feels … good …" you're panting like a dog in heat, skin dewy with sweat. "You can … move … ah!"
As soon as the words leave your mouth, he starts to thrust. They're gentle at first, but each moan that passes your lips encourages him to increase his pace. Your cunt forms a vacuum, sucking him back in whenever he strays too far backward, encouraging more forceful movements to try and overcome that magnetic pull.
As he gains speed and ferocity, his carefully-maintained control ebbing with each thrust, he notices the cutest little bulge moving around your lower abdomen: the head of his cock, trying to find the path of least resistance as it stuffs you full again and again. You're growing used to the sensation, now; the noises you make are no longer half-pain, but rather full-pleasure, echoing off the walls, making him dizzy with desire and primal satisfaction.
"I'm not givin' this up," he warns possessively, "now that I know y'take me so well … I'm done chasin' ya."
"'M yours," you promise, nodding along to his claim, "have been — for — a while — mmn —"
His lips curl into a smile, pace increasing, entranced as he watches your pussy drag up and down his length, sticky gloss of your release coating it and smearing into the coarse hairs at his base.
You're a blur of tangled limbs as the night goes on, enjoying each other's bodies until the early morning, dark sky lightening to a hazy pink. Your cunt is a sopping mess when it's over, full of his cum, leaking steadily from your gaping, fluttery hole. Shunsui marvels at the sight, eyes glued to it as he kisses your love-bitten thighs.
"I think I love ya," he mumbles sleepily once you both settle, feathering his lips onto your shoulder. You would call him a pussy-drunk liar if he hadn't proven his dedication to you these past many months; your heart warms with affection, bursting with relief. Something clicks within you; some shift deep in your soul, noticeable enough to steal your breath for a moment … to make your reiatsu surge.
"Heh," Shunsui's voice is thick with exhaustion as he nuzzles into you, "maybe y'should talk to that pesky zanpakutō of yours. Seems like they might be ready t'give ya some answers."
dew yaps: writing this is what inspired me to spin up a shunsui x female original character longfic, of which the first chapter will be posted on day six of bleach week. brainstorming a zanpakutō for 'reader' made me realize ... I love shunsui far too much to just give him a faceless wifey for his entire life. he needs a tangible person to sink his yearning fingers into.
So, iirc, a zanpakuto spirit is born from the soul of its master, right? So it embodies an essential part of who they are. Their inner world is a reflection of their own soul.
My point. My point is that Hyorinmaru is Toshiro’s zanpakuto. Often cited as the strongest ice-type zanpakuto. And Toshiro has made repeated reference to how the struggle, for him, was never in unlocking or strengthening Hyorinmaru’s power, but in trying to hold him back.
And it just occurred to me. Toshiro is protective as all heck. Overprotective as all heck. Only of like, one or two people, but still.
It’s so freaking obvious and adorable I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner.
Hyorinmaru is overprotective of Toshiro.
You have this big eff-off Ice Dragon that could freeze anyone solid with a glance, and he sees his master—a tiny little boy—and this absolute primordial force of freaking nature looks at this tiny little lonely kid and goes:
“If anything happens to this child, I will kill everyone in a thousand mile radius, and then myself.” bruh you’ll already be dead but that’s beside the point
And whenever Toshiro goes into battle, he has to hold this guy back.
Hyorinmaru’s in full-on Papa-Dragon, I’ll-Make-Sure-You-Don’t-Ever-Speak-To-Me-Or-My-Son-Again mode, ready to murder everyone in the same area code of whoever so much as threatened his boy, and Toshiro has to focus on making sure he doesn’t.
And of course. Of course now I’m picturing their interactions through this lens. I mean. Can you just. Imagine an overbearing, manifested Hyorinmaru coiling around his little master and grooming him like a kitten.
T: “Oi. You’re freezing my hair.”
H: [growls]
T: [sighs]
