Bleach Fan Fiction ❯ inside of the iceberg ❯ Glacier ( Chapter 1 )

Matsumoto circles the chair tentatively and puts her hands around the Captain's neck. “Enough for today, Captain. I can't even think anymore.”

The fact that he only grumbles how there is a lot more to be done, but doesn't shake her hands away means he is game. “Just a bit,” she coos and starts rubbing his shoulders. He is tense as always, propped in his straight-back chair going through tons of paperwork as though his life depended upon it. Or the lives of people he cared about.

Well, really, they do.

But every now and then, she would circle the chair and put her fingers to work, taking her time going down his back to the small of it, where the tension is greatest. Matsumoto has rubbed a good deal of backs in her time and so she can tell Hitsugaya has the back of an old man. All wrapped up in knots of worry and clogs of old strain, his entire body was like that. Even his face, fixed in an expression of constant thought, makes for a gross clash with its own child-like features.

She felt him relaxing slightly, slumping forwards when she pressed with her knuckles and that meant it was ok to take the next step. So she leaned in, next to his ear and suggested they moved to the couch.

It was his duty now to give a displeased grunt, as if she is making him do unnecessary woman-things, but then he would get out of the chair and walk to the rather small couch. He would take off his captain's coat and carefully fold it over the back of it. Matsumoto watched the muscles in his back flex. His shoulders were broad for a frame so frail and young-looking and she could guess the hardness and power of these shoulders even if she hadn't known them intimately. He was a riddle, a man with a boy's body, a child with an old man's soul.

Interestingly enough, women seemed to be attracted to this. The twist of his personality, his strength and charisma, against his boyish height and playful hair - well, it probably brought out the motherly instinct along with the sexual hunger. Made for an interesting combination, Matsumoto found.

Hitsugaya sat gingerly on one end of the couch. Now playful, Matsumoto suggested it would be easier if he lay down. He gave her another one of his dirty looks as if to say “all of this is your sick little idea, I had nothing to do with it” and then lay down on his front, hands parallel to his body so the least possible number of his back-muscles would be in use while she worked them over. With a wide, cat-like grin, Matsumoto went down on her knee beside him and concentrated on his back. My God, nothing should be this hard to relax.

The thick black silk of the uniform scratched her fingers and she finally caught the collar of it and pulled it down. Hitsugaya's head twisted and his eyes shot the message at her again, “it's all on your soul, I had nothing to do with it, I was just there.”

“What?” she protested. “It was scratching my fingers.” The white silk was much softer, heated by his skin. She watched his face carefully, at the same time feeling for movement in his hip next to her knee. It was still, she had yet to wait for his lust to descend that far down. The scowl, however, was getting softer, half-lidded eyes no longer a sign of disdain towards the world, but a drowsy contentedness that he sort of begrudged himself but still couldn't help. He was looking into nothing, just feeling her expert hands smoothing the stress away from his back. Maybe it was this cold indifference towards her that turned her on, she couldn't really tell.

Well, that was a lie. She could. She just didn't want to go there in her thoughts, to why she wanted her men, the men she most cared about, to take her for granted. It was a sign that they felt confident in her love for them, accepted it not as something given, but as something that was always there.

Taken for granted, it was such a horribly mean phrase. But there it was. The men who run after her, looking for proof of how she feels and how they feel, well, they tend to make a great big mess of it all. This cold distant bubble that the ones (well, the TWO) she cared about lived in, it was safe. And she was happy if every now and then she could come float in the bubble with them.

She let one of her hands slip beneath him, only briefly touching his abdomen. He responded wonderfully, starting out of his hazy calm into arousal. She giggled and he scowled, but only half serious.

“One of these days, you'll let me get the oil and give you a real massage. …Captain,” she whispered. It won her another grunt. “No, really,” she went on, “it feels so much better, skin to skin,” and she leaned over him, her hands above his shoulders and her weight only slightly pressed against his back. He caught her wrist in a firm grip and slid fingers up her sleeve, up the tender white skin covering her veins. His expression changed from a disdainful scowl into concentration. It was a sign; “you got yourself into this, it starts here,” something of the sort.

He twisted around as she straddled him but Hitsugaya didn't feel like being mothered tonight. He sat up, fitting her between his legs, with her own coming up on each side of him. A tight fit considering the size of the couch but neither of them seemed to mind. This office and this couch comprised the only place this sort of behaviour was ever allowed.

Even now, sitting down with him on higher ground, his forehead came to her nose. He looked up at her pale blue eyes with his own, magnificently rich azure ones and before he could help himself, dove fingers into her hair. He loved women's hair, loved it long and soft and curling around his fingers. For a second, she saw in him the “distant look” that was very rare and precious, but the concentration came back and he undid her sash and the pink ribbon holding her shirt in place, pulling it apart. He never bothered with her breasts like most men did, going straight after them the moment her shirt fell open. And why would he? Breasts weren't his thing. After all, the one he was most likely imagining didn't have much of them.

Matsumoto always wondered how he did it. Men are visual creatures and if they were to fantasize about someone else, they would have to close their eyes. But Hitsugaya never did. Not even when he had the “distant look” that was dedicated to her, the other one, the one he was probably seeing. Matsumoto wanted to ask, but this was not a question you can ask Hitsugaya. He would never answer, it would only bother him.

He tipped her chin down to him, but only breathed a sigh onto her lips and bared her throat. He knew her well enough. The first time they did this was his first time. And he was so concentrated she had to laugh at him. It was as though he was figuring her out, figuring out her abilities, as he would an opponent's. It was his way of dealing with insecurity, the only way he knew, she supposed.

Boy genius, though. He DID figure out the neck-thing on the first go.

And now he was breathing down it, barely touching it with his lips. It was torturous, really, and she tried to slide closer to him, giving a shaky little “Captain,” of annoyance. His hands remained fast about her waist, keeping her away. He didn't smirk at her, thank the Lord. Hitsugaya never smiled in THAT way. If he did it would all be too sick and too cruel.

His hands left her hips and rid her of the uniform kimono, throwing it a bit carelessly on the table next to the couch. A few documents scattered and for a second it seemed he would be distracted by it.

But his lips pressed to her throat and she felt the flash of teeth. His fingertips ran up her bared back and when she sighed, he pressed her on himself finally. His body was hard and demanding and she liked moulding herself to it. Matsumoto pulled up her hips slightly, teasingly and felt the length of him. His breath hitched and he looked up at her with an expression half angry that she made him lose control, half begging for more. The hands that clutched her, circled her waist and brushed against the inner side of her breast, settling around her collar bone. She bent down and kissed him. Hitsugaya didn't kiss back. It was just something he did, really. It was as thought response would ruin his feeling of it. Vice versa, she was passive for him when he decided to kiss her, presumably so he wouldn't lose concentration. It was odd, but it was his. He opened his mouth for her, only slightly and she felt around his teeth and his tongue with her own, all the time grinding on him in a steady rhythm. He kept his hands still, around her neck, waiting for the limit of his own patience.

Sex with Hitsugaya could easily become a competition or a clash of wills, but not in the same way as with Gin. Not in a playfully cruel way. Or, better perhaps to say, a merciless game sort of way. Once he had figured out a thing she liked, a thing that made her tick or moan, Gin would store the knowledge, but not use it. It innerved her to no end that he could, if he so chose, melt her, reduce her to a pudding-like amorphous state. It made her angry and aggressive that he chose not to. It enraged her even more when he would only smile that smile, making it perfectly clear her predicament did little but amuse him. And then he would find a new trick that made him happy and her helpless.

And then he would store that one away as well.

She stopped kissing Hitsugaya, took a breath to drive Gin out of her head; she didn't need him there, not now, certainly not in the near future. She needed an anchor, so she stole a moment, a heartbeat and looked into her Captain's eyes. People kept saying they were the colour of clear shallows, sea in sunny skies next to sandy white beaches. But these people either never saw his eyes or never saw sandy beaches. This azure was too dark, too rich and protruding to be something so fickle and inconstant. Matsumoto had long figured out what they were.

Insides of a glacier, the nine tenths of the ice berg that you will never see, that's what his look was. Those eyes brought down ships; they froze all those who came to conquer. And now they were looking at her with desire.

She pulled herself off the couch, feeling a cold necklace where his hands left her throat and kneeled in front of him. He kept looking with that same absolute concentration that sometimes frightened her. One could never tell how much of that resolve is rage. But there was no such worry now. She pulled on the band that kept her hakama tied to her waste, while he undid his own, enough to pool it around his hips with the rest of the uniform clothes. She leaned in slightly and pressed her lips to one of his hip bones. Her right hand rested on his thigh while the left one went up to his chest, playfully avoiding anything which might bring him the slightest release. She giggled, pushing her luck, but it proved to be a bit too far after all. A grunt signalled the end of his amusement with this game as he bent down and pulled at her hair. It didn't hurt, he was far too kind or far too squeamish for something like that, but it was control. He needed a bit of her submission it seemed, and he got it the moment his lips found her neck again, not teasing this time, forceful.

She positioned herself and slipped him inside, he didn't waver but she could feel his breathing change. He was so hot on her and in her she could hardly believe this man commands ice.

Hitsugaya thrust up as she came down. The combination won a deep-throated moan from both of them and another “distant look” from him. They hadn't done this in a while, too busy and whatnot. The tension that accumulated in his back over the past several weeks, obviously accumulated here too. She could never imagine him as a gentle lover, not the type to take his time, building up the pleasure slowly when he could do it equally well in quarter the time. His sense of efficiency would never allow it. But tonight he was even more forceful, even faster.

Gin, on the other hand, took all the time he wanted, all the time in the world. Just because he could.

But she supposed he could do it differently for Hinamori. Like Gin did it differently for her, only once. For Gin it was a betrayal of his nature, but perhaps for Hitsugaya it wouldn't have to be so drastic. Perhaps, for him, it would only be the gear-change from fucking to making love.

Matsumoto shook her head from it, hoping she didn't adopt a “distant look” of her own. Perhaps she did, because Hitsugaya's hands left her hair and clasped her hips, tilting her back and pulling her in from a new angle. Deeper and faster now, she was getting there with him, both breathing hard and letting out an occasional moan. All of his patience was at an end, when he leaned in on her neck and breathed a half-pronounced “Matsumoto.” His hands stopped pushing her on him, and one climbed back to her hair, while the other worked her arousal, in sync with his thrusts.

She felt the warmth that came before the orgasm, then the pang of her muscles convulsing and the pleasure spread through her, dragging her conscious mind out and above her body, to float there just a bit as it always did. Soon enough his abdominals bunched up against her and he slumped on her shoulder, hugging her tightly.

She waited for both their breaths to calm down but even then he didn't seem to want to let go. She couldn't see his face, only feel his breath and the slight wetness of his lips. After a long moment, one of his fingers started playing with a strand of her hair and then he straightened, pulled out, lay back on the couch. Strangely enough, he took her down him, positioning her as if she were a life-sized doll, left hand finding her hair again. His eyes were closed and his expression as relaxed as she's ever seen it.

Their skin was moist and sticking to the couch and each other. The light was stinging her eyes and she wished she had thought of turning it down. But this was it, the bubble, and so she was content.

How many times had he thought of Hinamori while doing her? Well, about as many as she had thought of Gin. It was only fair that way. She shivered and, perhaps just getting it wrong or not knowing anything better to do, Hitsugaya pulled his captain's cloak over her shoulders.

“What about the work?” she asked after a while. “Can we do it tomorrow?”

“No,” he answered right away, but made no move to start it.

She giggled and added, a bit more seriously: “It's been a while since I've gotten you this relaxed. You should just go to sleep.”

“…you want them to find me half naked on my couch, do you?” he growled huskily.

“Wow, yes.” She giggled again. “Imagine if I fell asleep as well! You'd never hear the end of it. You'd have to fight off my disgruntled fans, too. That would be so much fun!”

“It would not.”

“Really, you are such an old man. Captain,” she giggled again.

“There is a reason why captains are not supposed to sleep with their personnel,” he said in a completely no-bullshit voice.

“You mean, you could force us, poor, defenceless ones, into all sorts of debauchery?” she gave a monumentally dishonest sigh, “I wish you'd try.”

“It is not amusing.”

“…then why are you?”

“Why am I what?” she couldn't see his face again. It was next to her collar bone, breathing into her neck once more. The tone was cold like always, rasping because that was the quality of his voice. But it wasn't necessarily forbidding.

So she pushed on. “Why are we doing it?”

Breath. Breath. Breath on her skin. And silence. Then, “I didn't mean to put you in a position where you'd have to ask me that.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? Captain,” it was her turn to demand explanations.

He propped himself up on his elbows and looked down on her face. “I don't think you are mine, or that I own you or whatnot. It is only convenient. And besides, I thought you didn't mind.”

She snorted, not in a victorious way. Sardonically, harshly, the way she could if she wished to. “You thought I didn't mind. You make it sound as if I'm doing you a favour.”

“Well, you are.”

“…I really don't know if I should be offended or honoured.”

“I wouldn't want you to feel offended,” pause, one of the sincere ones. “Or used,” he added.

“I was joking. …Captain.”

She smiled, kindly this time, and twisted her body to get off the couch. His hand pressed down on her shoulder. Hitsugaya caught her lips and she opened her mouth and waited while his own moved across hers. But he stopped.

“…kiss back this time,” she heard him command silently. He didn't look her in the eyes, as if he was embarrassed for asking it even though one could never guess from the way he said it. She did, but this time she made sure to take her time doing it.

He didn't push his tongue in, or bite her lip. There was no force in it. If she had to look for a word, she would say it was sweet. And Matsumoto felt an unwelcome fluttering in her stomach. She's been in the bubble too long, but she wouldn't pierce it. The bubble was warm and its crystallized surface reflected light. It was calm. Finally, it was relaxed.