Disclaimer: I don’t own Bleach. If I did, I wouldn’t be as mean to Ishida as Perriot Studios is.
Look, no one has been more patient with the Bound arc in the Bleach anime than yours truly. The storyline had better-than-filler pacing, fanservice was being tossed about like confetti, and I got to see a lot of my favorite character, Ishida. Now at episode 89 (which I still haven’t seen subbed), Ishida stands to receive a Quincy bracelet--either appropriated by or constructed by Mayuri--which can restore Quincy powers. This, I resist.
I dread next week’s episode and filler!Ishida making yet another stupid decision. Soooo, meanwhile Shiites and Sunnis explode one another in Iraq, Israel and Lebanon rear their bloody heads, and the United Nations tell the lunatic North Korea to play nice, I say: Fuck this, I’m taking over this storyline and at least getting filler!Ishida laid. ~debbiechan, 7/18/06.
She looked surprisingly small in her Shinigami uniform with no hakama. Pretty. So pretty. Standing in inexplicable heels. The last time Ishida had seen her she had been unable to stand, her cheeks smeared with blood, and her eyes full of kindness.
He wanted to feel the same sympathy for her now as he had then, but he didn’t trust her.
She spoke as if issuing a scripted speech. She held out an artifact, a bracelet with a silver cross.
Ishida knocked it out of her hand.
"He made it," Ishida yelled to a expressionless face. "Your captain, that monster, who--"
She leaned over to pick up the bracelet.
"Listen to me!" Ishida grabbed her wrist before she could reach it. "He desecrated my people. How many Quincy did he torture to get data that fashioned that--joke of a contraption? Being a Quincy isn’t about manipulating spiritrons. It’s--"
The Shinigami, who could easily flip him over her shoulder or blast him to dust, allowed him to hold onto her wrist. "Being a Quincy is about protecting people," she said in a flat voice. The words sounded like notes her captain would have jotted down. Maybe after a full day of listening to screams, he would examine the content of Quincy credo instead of Quincy flesh.
"Stop!" Ishida was shouting the word to himself, but his grip on the wrist tightened.
The creek water threw white sunbeams across his glasses, confused his sight. This creek where his grandfather had taught him to shoot his first arrow. The waterfall roaring, never quieting, never getting louder. Every time Ishida trained here, he heard the noise as a ceaseless clamor for justice.
Maybe the bracelet was indeed a Quincy artifact. From what twisting, tortured wrist had it been wrenched?
"Why?" asked Ishida. "Why do you listen to him? Why do what he wants you to do?"
"He’s my father," said the pretty Shinigami. "Are you not the same with your own father?"
It was too much.
Don’t worry about saving the Dead. Save the Living. Ryuuken’s reproach rang, and Ishida closed his eyes. There was no saving Yoshino; she was already dead. Sensei--dead, dead. So many Quincy slaughtered in the name of balance and peace, and then their souls mutilated in dreadful experiments. And for this Shinigami to appear before him like an angel of salvation and offer to restore his powers?
He wanted to save her from her father.
"Why?" The word choked Ishida as he spoke it. His other hand fell on the Shinigami’s shoulder. He wanted to shake the blankness out of her eyes. "You saved my life once, and now you torment me with this ridiculous choice! As if I would--"
Her eyes glinted. Her face came closer. "You," she said. The voice seemed her own and not her captain’s now. "You are an unusual man."
The word stopped him. He was seldom called a man. Not quite sixteen, he didn’t feel he owned the word, and certainly, given how he had been acting these weeks--leading his friends into danger and death, weeping like a child over his powerlessness--he didn’t deserve to be called a man.
Her face moved closer, eyes softening. That she was … attracted to him was plain.
Ishida stopped breathing. Was he about to be kissed by a ghost? Her dark eyes were wide and innocent. Somehow he understood that she, like him, had never been kissed.
So they didn’t kiss. Instead, he found his fingers kneading her upper arm and heard a growl of confusion sounding in his throat. She lay her cheek against his. If it was a ghost’s cheek, it was warm.
He was touching her breasts. Two palms on the dark Shinigami cloth and her nipples hard under it. Why he was doing this wasn’t even a question. He was moving by intuition, trying to sense body and spirit with what senses he had left. Who are you? Her reiatsu responded to his hands--it flickered red and expanded like mist.
She began to nuzzle his neck with her mouth, smelling him, breathing warm spirit air against him.
They fell into one another right there, as they knelt on pebbles by the stream. Still not kissing. Touching each other with their desperate, searching hands. He found her thigh. It was warm too. He ran his palm down its length, and her hand landed between his legs.
What did she want from him? What did everyone expect of him? He was not important; he was powerless, and his conscience was chasing him just like the Bound. Let go of her, run away, keep running away.
Instead Ishida kept moving towards the inevitable. His hands slid past her short skirt, felt fabric there and pulled it down. Her skin was warm, warm, and there was a reassuring softness to it, like favorite clothes just out of the drier. He untied her obi and felt for more flesh. The tummy was a surprise--it was a white bowl shape, not the flat iron abdomen of a fighter. Beneath it, his fingers found black hair and a thick viscous wetness.
Her hands were on his shoulders. She spread her thighs apart with blatant readiness and looked him calmly in the eye. She still wore her odd white gloves. Her clothes were scrunched around her waist.
"It will please me to please you," she said, and that was all wrong. As if she were pouring tea.
Still, Ishida found himself disrobing. The shirt was unzipped already--had she done that?--and the breeze was lifting it, so he shouldered out of it and unzipped his pants.
I’m doing this to shake her out of this trance, to make her human, he lied to himself. To save her from that monster--
She took his arousal in her gloved hand, and rationalizations dissolved into the white noise of the waterfall. She guided him into her. He was aware of making a whimpering sound, as if resisting the wrongness, and then he was surrounded by wet pleasure.
She was tightening around him without moving her hips. Somehow she could do this--push him out slightly and then suck him back so that the wet pleasure squeezed him. He threw his arms around her with a moan, and her legs rose, locking behind his back.
His eye caught sight of the Quincy bracelet as he started to thrust. It lay there, dull and metallic, among white and pink pebbles.
There was no holding back. Ishida felt a rush of madness, as if his lower body was jerking beyond his control and whatever dominion he ever had over his senses was lost.
His face was burning. His throat was grunting. His fingernails were digging into hot, spirit skin.
I will lend you my power.
She did. Buoyed by her reiatsu, they went spinning in a ball over the stream. Ishida’s knees grazed the cold water, and his urgent thrusting died. Flying around while in this position was no more shocking than the position itself, but then they smashed against the waterfall. The water cut like knives, and then they were inside the roaring sound.
Who was she? Had she been trained for this like fighting? Her hips were pressing slow circles against him, urging him to move again.
They had settled on a smooth bank of rock--Ishida lying on it, and the Shinigami above him. Her reiatsu carved a pink misty space around them. They were locked together inside a spirit bubble while the waterfall ran, as noisily as before, around them.
They had been drenched already, though. She bowed her head, hair dripping, and took his hand. She positioned the fingers at a red cleft in her body just above where he and she were joined. Rubbed his fingers in a circle over the spot. Let out a pretty moan.Mmmmmmmm.
Ishida thrust forward, his rhythm slower this time. There were two beads of water on each of her nipples. The beads elongated with each thrust and did not drop. She let go his hand so that his fingers were rubbing her by themselves. Mmmmmmmm. A smell of minerals in the stone and gravel. The refracting bits of water on her shoulders, in her hair--she sparkled! She was a pretty as any natural part of the scene--green tree boughs, a butterfly….
That was when he noticed the bracelet. He was wearing it on the hand that was masturbating her.
"You--? What--?" Ishida’s voice sounded odd and raspy, but he could hear it over the noise of the waterfall. "What did you do?"
She had clasped the bracelet on him at some point. Cuffed him like a prisoner. He had no control, he no longer made choices--the last choice he had made was to sacrifice his powers and now….
Her lips parted, and her eyes closed. Her chest was heaving, and Ishida noticed that his fingers were moving faster, pressing harder. She worked herself against him as well, meeting each of his thrusts with a sloshing sound.
When her shoulders started to seize, he felt the power filling his body. Whether it was her spiritrons being transferred to him or merely the rush of making a girl come--he didn’t know and didn’t care. She was tightening around him in tiny hiccups of pressure. New liquid was sliding between his fingers. No, no--
He felt his face turn to one side, his cheek flat against cold stone, and held back.
Pumping himself idly in the shower wasn’t like this. Had his body ever shaken so much? A wave of heat and sweat passed over him. His mouth opened and no sound came out. No air came in. He was drowning, struggling--he kept thrusting.
She was slumped over him, finished. The wet band of clothes around her waist pressed his abdomen, and she was for all the world a beaten, ruined girl. A pawn. Her father’s creation.
Ishida kept lifting his hips against the limp body.
This tiny, pretty Shinigami who had once saved his life--how could he ever forgive her? She had probably stood next to her father with instruments as Quincy were tortured and he could forgive that. Not this, not taking away his choice.
Ishida let out a loud cry. It rang past the water, through the trees, and he emptied himself with the sound.
He was a Quincy. Destroyer, protector, manipulator of spiritrons, proud proud proud. And yet he had been taken.
The bracelet clanked against stone as he finished spasming. He lay there, arms spread wide, his torso a cross.
Eternal gratitude to faithful beta Finnigan Geist.