#shinji x reader

Gin

Gin was a menace. He wouldn't give you anything until you told him exactly what you wanted.

You couldn't respond to his kisses anymore, your attention distracted by his hand roaming over your body, barely touching you and leaving you shaking, especially when it was between your thighs.

"Gin, please—“

He muttered questioningly, pulling your shirt with one hand while the other continued to explore your legs, and his warm kisses had reached your stomach, above your waist.

"I don't know what you're referring to, Y/N. Can you say in your own words what you're asking me to do?"

"Gin, w-why are you doing this to me—Ah!" He brought you where he wanted you, as his kisses skipped over the area where you wanted him, kissing you only in safe areas. "Eat me, Gin. Eat me, please!"

He chuckled softly, enjoying himself at your begging words. "With pleasure."

Ukitake

You don't have to say anything to Ukitake, it's like a ritual for him. Like a form of meditation that calms him to hear you moan with pleasure as he eats you, until you end up saying his name like a mantra.

"Uki, you're so good, so good to me—" Your hips buckled more into his mouth as his own moans sent vibrations through your pussy.

His eyes were full of love as he looked at you, admiring the flush on your cheeks and the shattered breath he had made himself.

"My beautiful angel, anything for you."

Starrk

Starrk isn't the type to do this often, unusual perhaps, but he certainly doesn't leave things unfinished when he starts them. On the contrary, he discovers that it's a battle to be finished, one he wants to win.

"Starrk, right there! D-don't stop."

He wouldn't have stopped anyway, but it made him even more determined not to have to tell you how to do it because he already knows your body like the back of his hand. He groaned when he felt your orgasm invading his taste buds.

"Yes, that's right. Give me more, Y/N."

Captain Rojuro Otoribashi, better known as Rose, wasn’t a bad man. He had a perpetually bored expression and a laid-back vibe, but he wasn’t unpleasant. Just… hopeless at paperwork.

You were not.

In fact, you were dangerously good at it. You finished your morning assignments in the first hour of the day. And because you weren’t cautious enough to feign incompetence, you soon found yourself staying late with the captain, drowning in documents he couldn’t be bothered to do himself.

It wasn’t all terrible. Rose liked music, talked endlessly about the latest human fashion trends, and had a decent taste in books. But he also insisted on tuning some ridiculous instrument he’d picked up from his last trip while you did his job. He’d slip out with a lazy smile and a too-polite “Could you finish this for me?”

Eleven PM became three AM.

And your temper, unsurprisingly, rose.

You were knee-deep in paperwork, ink smudged on your nose, elbow-deep in regret, when the door to the captain’s office slammed open. The paper slider nearly came off its rails before slamming shut with a dramatic thud. You startled so hard that your brush jerked, splattering ink across your uniform and half the desk.

Offended, exhausted, and absolutely out of patience, you turned to glare at the intruder. Only to find yourself face-to-face with the blonde menace known as Shinji Hirako.

The white haori announced his rank, but not his purpose. Why he was in this division, at this hour, remained a mystery. Still, you stood stiffly, back aching but respectful.

“Captain?” you asked, voice barely audible and breathy in a way that sounded more ghost than girl.

He stood in the doorway like he owned it, all long golden hair, sharp jawline, and narrowed brown eyes full of smugness. You’d heard of him. How that crooked smile and devil-may-care attitude had caused stronger men to second-guess their choices. The man had a reputation.

But what he said next wasn’t dangerous. It was tragic.

“Heeeey. What’s a woman like you doin’ in a place like this?” he drawled, leaning on the desk with lazy familiarity. “Waitin’ for me in my office? That’s bold~”

Silence stretched between you, echoing in the quiet like a bad punchline.

It was a horrible first line. The kind that made you wonder if alcohol was actively eating his brain. You glared, channeling every ounce of dignity left in your paper-stained, ink-blotted body, which wasn’t much. You looked like a living Rorschach test.

“This is the Third Division. Captain Rose’s office,” you informed him calmly, hoping logic might snap him out of it.

It did not.

He blinked, slow as molasses, then his grin widened to show off an unsettling amount of fang. Your heart fluttered against your will. Rude.

“Heeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.” Suddenly, he was behind you, sliding his arms around your shoulders like this was some tragic rom-com. His voice was syrupy and slurred. “That’s not nice, cutie. Be nice to your captaiiiinnnnn. I had a long dayyyyyy.”

So he was drunk. Confirmed.

“Gimme a smooch to make it betterrrrrr,” he whispered right against your ear.

You were pretty sure your ears turned red. Maybe your entire soul.

Because, okay, his arms were strong. And warm. And yes, it had been a while since anyone called you “cutie” without it being an insult or an HR incident.

But no. Absolutely not. That was definitely the smell of alcohol.

Hard stop.

“I don’t even know you!” you protested, face blazing. He clung to you like an octopus, undeterred by your stumbling, elbowing, or increasingly unhinged yelps.

“You’re being difficult! Stop being… Difficult and listen. Your making this harder—”

“I’m not hard, sweetheart. At least… not yet.”

His voice dropped an octave with that disgusting little chuckle, and you shuddered full-body. That, of course, only encouraged him. He pulled you closer, grinning like a schoolboy with a death wish.

“Get off me!” you shrieked as he suddenly grabbed a handful of your ass, very much proving the “not yet” portion of his earlier comment had expired.

“Heyyyy, saucy~ I think you’re my new first lo—”

That’s when the puddle of spilled ink came into play.

Your foot slipped, his weight tipped forward, and the two of you collapsed over the desk in a flurry of limbs, curses, and precisely stacked paperwork. You landed hard, wind knocked out of you, the captain’s full weight crashing down on top. Paper fluttered into the air like some tragic romantic comedy written by Satan himself.

His face dropped into the crook of your neck with a soft thump.

Then… he nuzzled.

And then? He fell asleep.

Dead asleep.

Like a bastard.

“GET OFF ME!” you howled, squirming helplessly under the unconscious menace. He snored into your collarbone. Arms still wrapped, rather inappropriately, around your chest.

It took until six a.m. for the Third Division lieutenant to find you like that. You locked eyes with him, disheveled and ink-streaked, hair everywhere, a sleeping Captain Hirako draped over you like a particularly cursed throw blanket.

“I’m sick,” you said through gritted teeth. “Tell Rose I’m not coming in.”

The lieutenant, wisely, did not question you.

By midday, you sat in the barracks wrapped in a blanket, arms crossed, teeth clenched. Your bunkmate had long since scampered off, giving you the solitude you needed to stew in your fury.

And that’s when your captain entered.

Captain Rose stepped into the room, graceful as always, but with the cautious energy of a man who knew a storm when he saw it. Your eyes snapped to him, burning with righteous indignation. He visibly winced.

“I heard you received a… visit from Shinji,” he offered carefully.

You didn’t answer. Just stared.

“I was told he mistook the Third Division office for—”

Your eyes narrowed. Your jaw clenched.

“Mistook?” you repeated, barely able to get the word out without bursting into flames. “Mistook?”

Because mistakenly identifying an office didn’t explain the groping. The unsolicited cuddling. The nap.

What it did deserve was a formal harassment complaint. Not that those ever did much in Soul Society, but the fantasy of writing one helped your blood pressure stabilize.

Temporarily.

Rose, still hovering near the door like he was debating escape, cleared his throat. “Would… a full day off, a bottle of sake, and two weeks of desk-free assignments help… with the healing process?”

You considered.

And very, very slowly… nodded.

But only once.

And only because the thought of paperwork made your eye twitch.

“Well, actually,” Rose added nervously, “he’s hoping you’d talk to him. Right now. He feels… awfully bad.”

Behind your captain, a suspicious blond tuft of hair fluttered into view from behind the doorframe. You hadn’t even felt any reiatsu.

“You brought that man here?” you hissed, arms crossing with the wrath of someone dangerously close to snapping. The blond head guiltily retreated. Rose waved a hand with weak optimism.

“It was an honest accident. And besides, you can’t avoid a captain for the rest of your life—”

“Yes, I can.”

He blinked. “It’s not a healthy solution.”

You hated that he was right. You had been groped. But still, Rose had a point. Maybe if you let the idiot come in, spatula an apology out of his dumbass mouth, and pretended to accept it, you could get on with your life.

“…”

“I’ll give you the weekend off.”

“Fine.”

Rose nodded toward the door, like a coward.

This time, Shinji didn’t bounce in with his usual smug energy. He slunk, frowning, with white teeth too prominent against a nervous grimace. With more betrayal than you thought Rose capable of, he promptly stepped out and shut the door behind him, locking you inside with the source of your humiliation.

Turns out Captain Shinji Hirako wasn’t terrible when he wasn’t drunk.

He was worse.

“Hey,” he said, lifting his hand in a half-hearted wave before realizing how stupid it looked. It hovered in midair before landing behind his head like he was posing for a particularly awkward mugshot. “Sorry ’bout last night.”

That was it?

“Uh. Okay.” The words escaped more out of reflex than any sense of closure. You weren’t sure he even felt sorry. You just wanted this over with.

But he didn’t leave. He stayed. Watching you. Like he knew exactly how empty your forgiveness had sounded.

“I mean, you’re cute,” he began, tone light, “but I wouldn’t have jumped on ya like that if I’d been in my right mind.”

You dropped your arms in disbelief. Oh. So now he was going to insult you?

He paused, apparently realizing what had come out of his own stupid mouth.

You didn’t yell. You didn’t curse. You walked right past him with the grace of someone who’d hit their limit two breakdowns ago and caught a subtle whiff of something foresty and annoyingly nice. You’d resent liking it until much, much later.

“Don’t worry, Captain,” you said coldly, the title sharp as a knife. “As you said, I’m not particularly cute enough to worry about a second… incident.”

You opened the door with more flourish than necessary, just in time to see Rose standing suspiciously nearby, definitely pretending to be interested in the wall. Shinji hesitated, then walked out, halting, regretful. You noted, only distantly, that his eyes were actually a pretty shade of brown.

Too bad he was an asshat.

Just as you started to shut the door, he turned back. That careless glint in his expression was gone.

“I’m sorry. Sometimes my mouth runs away with me,” he said quietly, and for a second, he actually sounded like he meant it.

You met his eyes.

“Then, Captain, I suggest you let it take you far, far away.”

And you slammed the door.

It was the most satisfying thing you’d done all week.

If only he’d stayed gone.

“I ain’t crashing no bitchin’ party,” Shinji grumbled, arms folded deep into his sleeves. “Ain’t my fault the woman’s still mad.”

Across the office, Rose sighed dramatically, flipping his hair over his shoulder like the exhaustion of the world lived in his follicles.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone with the magic touch for paperwork?” he asked, voice coated in sugar and venom. “She’s blatantly refused all requests for help. Says she has no reason to be insulted and reminded of your face just to get work done.”

Shinji slouched further into his chair, lips jutting into a pout.

“Shame. She’s a cute one.”

“Mm,” Rose hummed, tone a bit too airy. “Not many women think you’re an attractive captain and a competent one. And you managed to ruin it with the one who did. Tragic, really.”

He said it like a casual jab. A lie he wanted caught.

And sure enough, Shinji sat up like someone lit a firecracker under him.

“Wait. Waitttt. Hard stop, Rose, my man.” His grin grew dangerously wide. “You sayin’ she thinks I’m all that jazz?”

Rose gave him the driest look imaginable. “I said she did.”

“But did is past tense,” Shinji argued, already halfway to standing. “And I’m very charming in the present tense.”

Rose rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out. “Yes. And very punishable in the future tense if you blow this twice.”

For the record, no, you had not said you thought Shinji was attractive.

What you had actually said, when Rose asked if things were “resolved,” was: “It’s too bad a decent captain could be such a creep.” 

You’d blushed, sure. Mostly out of residual mortification at remembering those slender fingers grabbing your ass, not out of secret affection.

Naturally, Rose had taken that out of context.

And Shinji, being a blonde disaster wrapped in a haori, had somehow interpreted all of this as you playing hard to get.

You weren’t.

You were playing stop-being-stupid, which turned out to be infinitely harder.

The next day, a bouquet of flowers appeared on your desk. No card. Just a dramatic, ill-advised splash of bright yellow roses.

You stared at them.

Yellow. 

Yellow.

So, basically, you were his grandmother now.

With absolutely no ceremony, you dumped them straight into the trash bin while he watched.

“Hey!” Shinji whined from the hallway, clearly scandalized. He turned to Rose, hands thrown up. “I hand-picked those this morning! Cost me an arm and a leg!”

“For such an intelligent man,” Rose sighed, flipping his perfectly maintained hair over his shoulder, “you truly have no finesse.”

“Whadda mean?”

“I mean, she’s not the type of woman impressed by… whatever that was. You need a more intelligent approach. More thoughtful.”

“Shuddup,” Shinji scoffed. “You don’t know who you’re talkin’ to. I’m the king of smooth moves.”

He was not.

But Rose didn’t have the heart to tell him.

His next tactics included chocolates, awkward scrolls filled with poetry, and a collection of increasingly obnoxious trinkets that made it abundantly clear he had no idea what he was doing. Each gift screamed I read too many romance novels, likely borrowed from Captain Kyōraku’s personal stash. None were signed, but they didn’t need to be.

It wasn’t just the gifts. That would’ve been bad enough in a “creepy high school crush” sort of way.

No. It couldn’t be easy. The man checked in on you.

Constantly.

Like a jealous boyfriend who wasn’t even dating you.

“’ Sup,” he asked, appearing in the exact same doorframe he’d burst into that first night. You and Rose were elbows-deep in division paperwork, but your captain didn’t so much as blink.

“Hey, Shinji,” Rose said smoothly, not even looking up. You had no choice but to acknowledge him with the barest nod.

“What are you doing all the way over here?” Rose asked, tone polite.

“Oh, just seeing how things are going,” Shinji replied, grinning like a fox who thought he was subtle. Spoiler: he was not.

These casual pop-ins became frequent. Too frequent. And just suspiciously normal enough that if you complained, you would sound unhinged.

You were approached, interrupted, followed, and hovered over. The bars you liked? Now his hangouts. Your favorite tea shop? Suddenly, “his regular.” Even your hobbies weren’t safe. 

He once showed up at your embroidery circle and tried to make a sock puppet.

So, you did what any rational woman at her wits’ end would do.

You grabbed his poor lieutenant by the collar and hissed, “Keep. Your captain. Away from me.”

Sōsuke Aizen, who looked as threatening as a sad cloud, gently blinked at you.

“I’m sorry,” he said with the kind of soft, noncommittal dread that only came from years of dealing with Shinji. “But I don’t… really control him. Any interference from me might… worsen things.”

He wasn’t lying.

You eventually wrangled an exhausted, verbal agreement out of him anyway.

Which, as Aizen warned, only made it worse.

Shinji somehow interpreted this as a challenge. You saying no? Clearly a flirty come on. You asking for space? Obviously, a sign that you were growing emotionally invested.

Thank the Soul King for his duties as a captain, because anytime he wasn’t working, he was hunting for you.

This is why, on one otherwise peaceful afternoon, while wandering the farmer’s market, you picked up on the barest shift in spiritual pressure. Faint but unmistakable.

“Captain Hirako,” you said without turning around, “please stop following me.”

He emerged from behind the cabbage stall like a blonde ghost of regret, hand behind his head, long hair shining in the sun, white haori billowing dramatically like he meant to be seen.

“Hey,” he said casually, eyes crinkling. “How’s it goin’? Did you find those leeks you were lookin’ for?”

You froze.

Your eyebrow twitched skyward.

Because yes, you had been looking for leeks. Silently. Ten minutes ago. On the other end of the market.

And despite his generally idiotic behavior, you were struck with the sudden realization that Shinji Hirako wasn’t just a mess.

He was paying attention.

Creepily well.

“Please,” you said, turning to him with the exhaustion of a woman spiritually hunted. “What do I have to do to make you stop?”

You stood between the tomato and potato stands, glaring up at him like the produce could back you up. The vendors looked on in hushed awe, unsure whether they witnessed a romantic drama, a public meltdown, or a hostage negotiation.

Shinji straightened, visibly delighted. His smile bloomed across his entire face, so wide it nearly curled into his ears.

“Well,” he drawled, tone pure mischief, “how ’bout we hit a club tonight? One’a mine.”

Your soul tried to leave your body.

A club.

You hated clubs.

The music, the sweat, the people grinding without consent, every inch of it made your skin crawl. Which, naturally, meant he would love it.

You stared at him. He grinned wider. A blonde threat in white robes and poor impulse control.

So you did the only thing you could think of.

You agreed.

“Fine,” you said flatly. “Let’s go.”

He blinked in surprise. “Wait—really?”

“Yes.” Your voice was hollow. “Tonight. Your club. Great.”

You said it with the firm conviction of someone signing a peace treaty in a war they never enlisted for. Because if it got him off your back, if this ridiculous date made him lose interest and leave you the hell alone, then so be it.

Maybe then you could return to your peaceful, unremarkable life.

Unbothered. Unfollowed.

Unfondled.

And yet… something in his eyes sparkled.

The jazz club was one of those strange new human trends that had taken the Soul Society by storm, especially among captains. Rose, in particular, had spoken with open jealousy about how Shinji owned something called a record player, a human device capable of playing music on demand. He’d sounded betrayed.

But it wasn’t just the music. The fashion had caught on, too. People dressed up in slim, modern garments; shorter hemlines, sharper silhouettes, all the rage in certain districts.

Wanting to blend in, you traded your usual shihakushō for a sleek black dress that hit just at your knees, edged with a flirtatious fringe at the hem. Long gloves, bare shoulders. It was bold for you, maybe even a little edgy. But compared to the showier outfits floating through the club, you looked modest.

Shinji was waiting outside.

Still in his captain’s haori, of course. It made sense. As a seated officer, he had a duty to always signify his rank, even in places like this. But the stark white robe looked almost out of place against the smoky glow of the neon sign behind him.

“Captain,” you greeted, trying to stay neutral as his gaze slid over you appreciatively.

“Just call me Shinji,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Calling me ‘captain’ is for people I don’t like.”

You’d barely opened your mouth to protest before he added, “And you don’t wanna be one of those, do ya?”

Despite yourself and everything that had come before, you found yourself humoring him.

To your surprise, once inside and tucked into a quieter booth away from the crowd, he was… actually fun to be around. Genuinely funny. Charismatic without trying too hard. A natural storyteller who laughed at his own dumb jokes and didn’t even flinch when you landed a solid jab at his pride.

There was a rhythm to it. Easy. Unexpected.

And as much as you hated to admit it, you really hated to admit it. There wasn’t anyone quite like him.

Toward the end of the evening, you excused yourself to visit the restroom. Not because you needed to. But because you needed a minute. A moment to step back and reassess the situation. The night. Him.

This wasn’t where you’d expected to be.

You’d always kept to yourself, intentionally skirting recognition. Performed just poorly enough to never qualify for a seated position. Only excelled in paperwork because doing nothing drove you insane. You liked privacy. Quiet. Simplicity.

And now here you were, in gloves and fringe, sipping a smoky drink across from a captain who once fell asleep on top of you, wrapped around your neck like a scarf, and yet somehow managed to charm his way into your guarded evening.

It was disorienting.

You stared at yourself in the restroom mirror. Same face. Same eyes. Same dull ache of not knowing what the hell you were doing.

But when you walked back out into the haze of warm light and low music, your eyes instinctively found him, lounging in the booth, one arm slung over the backrest, head tilted as he watched the band.

Sighing and deciding to just wing it, you stepped out of the bathroom and back into the haze of warm lights and swinging jazz. And the moment he spotted you, his grin returned like it was instinct. Like he was happy to see you.

Unfortunately, fate decided you needed more complications tonight.

You barely made it past the bar when a middle-aged man, clearly several drinks past charming, caught sight of you and lit up like a bonfire.

“Hey, dollface,” he slurred, grabbing your arm. “How ’bout we spend the rest of the night together?”

You didn’t even blink. Channeling your inner secretarial menace, you neatly pried his hand off your arm with a look so sharp it could’ve cut glass. He stumbled backward, right into a group of burly, bad-attitude muscleheads.

One punch later, your drunken admirer was on the ground, groaning.

The muscleheads turned to you.

Menacing and ready to fight.

Until a white-robed arm slid smoothly over your shoulders.

The air shifted.

The men glanced up, eyes landing on the haori, then on the expression underneath it.

Shinji looked offended. Not angry. Not irritated. Personally offended.

Teeth bared, eyes narrowed, he didn’t even say anything. Just existed.

It was enough.

The men backed off, muttering apologies and vanishing into the crowd.

He led you away from the chaos, hand warm on your arm.

“Captain—” you began.

“Shinji, dollface,” he corrected smoothly, voice lazy but possessive. “And I’m the only guy who gets to call you that, m’kay?”

The tone was somehow both reassuring and insulting. A neat trick.

You stared at him. “Why didn’t you help earlier?”

He turned his head, the grin back in full force. “You talk such a rough game. Figured I’d give ya a chance. See if you were gonna ditch me for that guy. If ya had, I would’ve backed off for good.”

You blinked. “Dear Soul King… that’s all I had to do?”

“I knew you wouldn’t,” he said cheerfully. “You’re too honest, cupcake. You really are my first love.”

You went scarlet.

“Don’t say that!” you hissed. “Besides, why let the creeps crowd me if you thought I could handle it?”

He winked, tugging you closer.

“It’s one thing for a guy to flirt with a cutie like you. But if they really come after my girl?” His hand tightened gently on your shoulder. “Then there’s hell to pay.”

You opened your mouth to correct him, to say you weren’t his anything.

But nothing came out.

Because despite the teasing, the nonsense, the full-force Shinji-ness of it all… There was something oddly wonderful about him.

Something marvelous, even.

It took Shinji five years to get you to verbally commit to him.

Another fifteen to convince Rose to finally let you transfer.

He’d also been forced to transfer his fourth seat to another division to avoid a scandal, which caused a minor upheaval and many long nights of paperwork. Paperwork you were now, conveniently, there to solve.

But even with you in the Fifth Division, and the obvious familiarity between you and the captain, most of the squad still didn’t realize you were a couple. Shinji never formally announced it, and you weren’t the type to overshare. Instead, it lived in the details. In the way he leaned into your space when he didn’t have to, the way you snatched reports from his hand before he could ruin them, the way he muttered lovingly vulgar things under his breath while arguing with the record player like it owed him money.

You had even, eventually, apologized to Sōsuke Aizen.

Much to his amusement.

And Shinji’s visible disdain.

Still, he never really minded your independence. He let you go on missions as you pleased, so long as you came home to him.

Lieutenant Aizen, for his part, looked increasingly grateful whenever you swept in, shooed him out, and took over the ungodly mountain of paperwork. You had a strong suspicion that Shinji made the poor man’s life harder than necessary, deliberately assigning him nonsense just to test his patience. Or yours.

Shinji also never left the two of you alone for long.

He said he trusted you. He did. But that didn’t mean he liked the way Aizen looked at you when you were deep in thought, biting your lip and drafting reports with that efficient little frown.

Shinji liked to tease you, summoning you with all the power and authority of a squad captain just to whisper some horrifically embarrassing pet name and grin when your ears turned red. Sometimes you’d storm off in a rage, only to end up at Rose’s office, dramatically throwing yourself into a chair.

“Please, Captain. Take me back.”

“I can’t kidnap you from your husband,” Rose replied, deadpan.

“He won’t even notice,” you lied. “He’s been complaining about bananas for three hours. I need a break.”

Rose would roll his eyes, and Shinji would appear minutes later, smug and unrepentant.

But then the nights came. Quiet, golden-lit nights. Jazz playing on the record player. A steaming drink in hand. Shinji stretched out on the floor, arms crossed behind his head, humming along and grinning when you walked into the room like he’d been waiting for you the whole time.

And you’d remember why you gave in to the exasperating, ridiculous, deeply devoted man who fought with the lieutenant from Twelfth Squad like it was a hobby.

Your life in the Soul Society had once been predictable. Quiet. Manageable.

Now it was chaos. Loud, exhausting, infuriating chaos.

And somehow… better.

Learning to see the world in color had taken time. Years. But watching it fade to black and white again took only a moment.

“He’s gone.”

Sōsuke Aizen stood alone in the long hall, voice low but sure, watching your face with clinical precision. You’d never been alone with him before, never had reason to be. Now, with no one else around, no laughter echoing down the corridor, no footsteps to fill the silence, it felt as if the entire world had tilted.

“The captain and several other powerful captain-level members were convicted by the Gotei 13 for illegal experiments,” he said.

It was delivered as fact. Crisp. Final.

Friends, mentors, people you’d known and trusted—loved—disappeared from your life as if they’d stepped into fog and never turned back. Shinji among them.

And the worst part?

It had happened on a regular day. He’d been called out for a simple mission. No fanfare. No goodbyes.

By the time you realized it was real, it was already done.

It crushed you. But you were not thin-skinned. Lazy, yes. Irritable, definitely. But not fragile. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you had always known that captains lived dangerous lives. Still, you had never imagined he’d vanish like a ghost. No body, no word, just gone.

You nodded with a grace you didn’t feel.

“Pardon me, Lieutenant.”

Aizen stepped aside, recognizing the finality in your tone. But just as you passed him, his hand settled lightly on your shoulder.

You stopped.

When you turned to look at him, there was a flicker in his expression. Something that didn’t belong. Triumph? Disappointment? Like your reaction had let him down. Like you hadn’t fallen apart enough.

That flicker vanished as quickly as it came, his eyes growing colder in its place.

You turned from that look.

“I’m so sorry,” he said softly, almost rehearsed. “Would you like to stay here this evening? I could make some tea. Just sit with you, if you’d prefer not to be alone.”

It sounded kind. It should have been kind.

But something in his voice, in the weight of those perfectly formed words, made your skin prickle.

You stared at him.

Hard.

And something shifted. He withdrew his hand.

His expression wasn’t cruel. But it wasn’t comforting either. It was a quiet wall, built deliberately between you.

“…No.”

He froze.

“Excuse me,” you said instead, voice clipped and clean.

You walked into the night, shivering, not from cold, but from the lingering press of his gaze. It wasn’t violent, but it was invasive. Alert. Hungry. You tried to dismiss it. He had lost his captain, too. And no matter how irritating Shinji had been to him, how immature, how unpredictable, lieutenants still took that kind of loss hard.

Still… you remembered the only time Shinji ever looked truly furious outside of battle.

It was when Sōsuke had casually asked if you’d like to accompany him on a mission.

“No,” Shinji had said immediately, voice sharp as a blade. “Do yer own work, Sōsuke. She ain’t pickin’ up your slack.”

You’d both been shocked. It was the first time Shinji had ever spoken to him like that in front of you.

And like a madwoman, you laughed.

Laughed until it cracked into sobs, curling in on yourself on the floor of your quarters. You wept until dawn, and then rose the next day with your uniform pressed and your hair immaculate. No one would see the wreckage.

You watched as Aizen became captain. Selected a new lieutenant. He tried to give you a ranked seat, which you declined. You kept your desk. Kept your distance. Watched him try, and fail, to breach your quiet, well-armored grief.

The years passed like paperwork, fast, impersonal, endless.

Shinji Hirako had been dead for ninety years.

And the light in your life had never fully returned.

With time refusing to rewind, it was only now that you let yourself realize it. To truly realize it.

It was over.

The vibrant color he had brought to your world had faded, slow and unnoticed, until now it dripped like paint down a wall, pooling into gray. 

Into silence.

All that remained was memory.

A golden-haired idiot. Loud, crass, warm. A man with a grin that could cut through dimensions and a heart so loud it anchored yours. A man who made you feel seen. Pulled you into the chaos. Gave you reason to resist the creeping numbness.

And now he was gone.

Ninety Years Later

Karakura Town was one of those places. The kind of place where spiritual activity ran thick through the air. A hotbed for hollows. A nightmare for patrol shifts.

And, for you?

Right now, a whole lot of boring.

You sat on a rooftop, knees drawn up, arms crossed over them, chin balanced lazily on your forearms. You’d been assigned solo to this sector, and there hadn’t been so much as a weak hollow all night. Even the humans were too quiet.

Unseen, a short distance away, several spiritual presences flickered behind layered concealment. Too subtle for even your sharp senses.

“Dollface.”

The nickname cut through the air like an old scar tearing open. Your shoulders twitched, instincts snapping to attention before your brain caught up.

Shinji sighed from his hidden perch, watching the back of your head like a ghost clinging to the last thread of a life he couldn’t touch.

“That’s my girl.”

There had been hollows earlier. But the second your spiritual pressure had flared near his location, he’d annihilated every single one. Viciously. Quietly.

She doesn’t even know, Rose thought with quiet dismay as he stepped beside him in the shadowed loft of the old industrial building the Visoreds had claimed as their hideout.

“You still love her?” Rose asked softly.

Shinji’s lips pulled back in a flash of teeth, disapproval first. Then, a dreamy sigh.

“’ Course. She’s still cute as a button.”

The look on his face made several of them groan audibly.

“But you’re not going to see her?” Rose pressed, glancing down at you from their hiding spot.

“I thought you’d tackle her,” Hiyori muttered from her perch, arms crossed tightly.

“He never shuts up about her,” she added. That earned her a sharp side-eye from Shinji, effectively shutting everyone up.

“She’s under that bastard’s thumb,” Shinji muttered finally. “I show my face, he’ll know. And he’ll use her.”

A beat passed.

“I ain’t gonna ruin her life som’more.”

“You’re assuming she’s not already ruined by you not being in it,” Rose replied, voice light but serious beneath.

“Yoruichi said she doesn’t have a boyfriend,” Kensei offered, stepping forward. “Said she doesn’t trust Aizen. She just… floats. Gets by. She might help us get close.”

“I’m not draggin’ her into this!” Shinji snapped, eyes flashing. “She ain’t got nothin’ to do with this mess.”

“She’d call you out for that,” Hiyori said dryly, standing and dusting off her shorts. “Say you’re full of crap and kick your ass.”

“Both,” Love agreed from the lower level, sprawled on the couch.

“Yay! True love!” Mashiro chirped brightly, clapping her hands.

Shinji gritted his teeth hard enough to crack one.

“Ain’t gonna happen. And if any of ya even try, I’ll kill ya.”

Before anyone could reply, his eyes flared, locked on a spike in spiritual pressure.

“Gotta go,” he said quickly. “Don’t let her outta yer sight. Or I swear, I’ll crush ya.”

With one hand gripping the brim of his bucket hat, he darted through the door and vanished into the shadows.

Rose exhaled long and slow.

“Goodness,” he murmured, almost fond, “he’s still a fool.”

“Should we get her?” Kensei asked, expression unreadable.

Rose watched the skyline.

Then shook his head.

“He’s not that much of a fool.” 

The eventual defection of Aizen was not something you were incapable of comprehending in the moment.

His bald-faced betrayal, buried within the chaos surrounding the human intruders, blindsided nearly everyone, including you. There had always been something off about your captain. But you had chalked it up to awkward social behavior. Maybe a little too polished. Maybe trying too hard to make you like him.

You hadn’t realized you were just a pawn.

A decoy.

Collateral damage, meant only to hurt someone else. His old captain, the one who once snarled, “She ain’t picking up yer slack.”

Aizen destroyed lives like he was brushing lint off his shoulder.

Yours? He didn’t even bother aiming. Just stepped on it as he walked past.

You took some petty satisfaction in knowing you might be the only person who ever threatened him and lived. Just once, though, you would really like to hit him with a very big stick.

But there was no time for curling in on yourself, no space to cry or vomit or fall apart like Momo had. Not then. Not now. You didn’t crumble. You wouldn’t crumble.

Captain Yamamoto had forcibly promoted you to Third Seat after the former one disappeared. You hadn’t had the guts to refuse.

So you picked up the shattered pieces of the squad. Held Momo while she wept. Screamed at stunned officers to focus. Filed every soul-shattering report with mechanical efficiency. Including the one that read, in uncharacteristically blunt handwriting:

“Defected because he is an evil bastard.”

Central 46 didn’t even challenge it. Captain-Lieutenant Chōjirō may have even chuckled when he signed off on it.

When word came that Aizen was targeting Karakura Town, you personally tried to enlist. Yamamoto told you, in short: No. You’re too valuable here.

Paperwork over vengeance. As always.

So once again, you sat in the Soul Society, doing the boring, practical thing while someone else fought the world-ending battle. Whether or not you’d get breakfast the next morning depended on whether someone else won or lost.

(For the record: no. You didn’t get breakfast.)

But not because the world ended.

Because your world was about to punch through the roof, upend itself, and drag you kicking and screaming into the kind of chaos you were built to file around, not through.

You were keeping order, as usual, when it happened.

“Hey!” a young Shinigami ran up to you, beaming like an idiot. “The captains are back! They got the bastard!”

Relief flooded through you. Maybe now, finally, you could relax.

“And guess what! A whole bunch of old captains showed up too! Like, surprise, they’ve been alive this whole time!”

Your hand paused, hovering above a new form.

“What?”

“Yeah! Captain Yamamoto reinstated them to their old positions! One of the returnees already got squad five! Some dude with blonde hair—”

You cut in darkly, voice low and sharp:

“And a creepy smile?”

“Uh… yeah? You know him?”

You stood slowly.

And then, for the first time in your professional life, you shoved the entire stack of papers off your desk.

The desk followed.

You threw your ink pot at the door.

And then you stormed out, blazing past the bewildered officer, down the corridor, past the barracks, through the market stalls, shoulders squared, eyes wild, fists clenched like divine retribution made mortal.

You didn’t stop until you reached the edge of town.

To that house.

The one by the river.

The one you hadn’t visited in ninety years.

Dust covered everything. The windows had held up. No one had looted a thing, not even the record player on the table, silent and ancient, buried in a decade’s worth of stillness.

Your possessions sat untouched.

You stood in the doorway, seething.

And for a moment, just a moment, you considered throwing the whole house into the river.

But that would be childish.

No.

You would throw him off a cliff.

You squinted blearily at the flash of bright blonde entering the club. The bar you’d chosen specifically for not being associated with emotional trauma.

For a moment, your heart leapt in panic before your alcohol-soaked brain confirmed.

Too short. Hair too stiff. Definitely more “depressed poetry club” than “chaotic jazz menace.”

Not him.

Just Izuru Kira.

Welp. That called for another shot.

He gave a little wave in your direction. You raised one limp hand in what you hoped looked like “I acknowledge your existence, not your presence.”

Great.

He slid into the seat across from you, too polite to comment on the empty glasses littering the table.

“How are you holding up?” he asked gently.

You downed the shot in response. If he was looking for insight, that was all he was getting.

“Right,” he said. “That well, huh.”

He looked tired. More than usual. Dark circles under his eyes, posture like a melting snowman. A bandage peeked out from under his collar when he reached for the bottle.

You didn’t reply immediately, staring down into the molten burn of your next shot. After a beat, you muttered, “Heard about Cap… Gin. I’m sorry.”

He nodded again, jaw tightening. His already pale face seemed to drain further. A bandage peeked from beneath his collar as he shifted.

“It’s over,” he said in the tone of someone who absolutely hadn’t processed anything. “Change is inevitable. Resistance is pointless.”

Right. You forgot how inspirational he was.

Still, tonight? Melancholy was your drink of choice, so you slammed back another shot like it owed you money. He mirrored you. It was… oddly comforting.

“So.” He blinked. “Why are you drinking like someone canceled your soul?”

You stared at him.

You took a breath.

“My dead husband,” you began flatly, “who has been moonlighting in the human world like some trench coat-wearing drama king for ninety years, has just reappeared and been reinstated as my squad’s captain.”

There was a moment of silence so heavy you could’ve folded it into a futon.

Kira blinked.

“Holy shit,” he breathed.

“Exactly,” you said, deadpan. “I have officially entered Prime Asshole Territory.”

Kira poured another round like a man settling in for a slow descent into mutual disillusionment.

He let out a low whistle. “That… yeah. That’s a new one.”

“Oh, wait,” you said, grabbing the bottle and sloshing a bit too enthusiastically into your glass. “It gets better. Everyone’s thrilled. Like he’s some long-lost golden retriever who has come back from war. Meanwhile, I’m on drink number nine, drafting a comprehensive list of cliffs.”

He raised his glass, brows arched. “Is he on the list?”

“He is the list. Everyone else is a bonus entry.”

You clinked glasses like it was a sacred ritual.

“To absolute disasters who somehow get promoted.”

“To emotional damage wrapped in a haori.”

You both drank.

There was a beat of silence that tasted like shared bitterness and impeccable comedic timing.

And for the first time that day, you almost smiled.

Almost.

A little ways away, behind two poorly held menus, two absolute idiots crouched like spies with the subtlety of a brick.

“Yer kidding,” Shinji hissed, face twisted in righteous offense, teeth bared like a raccoon caught mid-heist. “She finds out I’m alive and she’s getting drunk?”

“She doesn’t exactly look like she’s planning a romantic reunion,” Rose murmured, shifting the menu to block his face from a particularly judgmental waiter. “You might, and I say this with love, desperately need a new strategy. Preferably one involving an apology and not teeth.”

“She’s drinkin’ with him!” Shinji seethed. “That paperclip-lookin’ bastard!”

“Kira is sad,” Rose said flatly. “Drinking with him doesn’t count as emotional infidelity. At best, it’s group depression.”

“Still!” Shinji hissed. “He’s leanin’ close! He laughed at her joke!”

“You haven’t made her laugh since before you faked your death and abandoned her for nearly a century, so—”

“Okay!” Shinji smacked the table, rattling the soy sauce. “That’s it. I’m goin’ over there.”

Rose calmly stuck his arm out to block him. “You’ll make it worse.”

“She’s makin’ lists of cliffs, Rose!”

“You read her cliff list?”

“She left it on the desk! In bullet points! And she doodled me falling off one in the margin!”

“She is an artist,” Rose said solemnly. “And you are the subject.”

They both peered over their menus again.

Across the bar, you were staring down into your empty glass, muttering something under your breath. Izuru, meanwhile, had his forehead pressed to the counter like he was trying to phase through it.

“She looks like she’s gonna cry,” Shinji whispered, panic edging into his voice. “Or throw hands.”

Across from him, Rose held his menu up like it was a holy shield.

“She’s not exactly looking happy, Shinji. You might need something radical. Like tact.”

They sat hunched in the corner booth of the bar, both hiding behind laminated menus far too small to conceal two full-grown captains. It looked as stupid as it sounded.

Very, very stupid.

“What are you planning to do?” Rose muttered, peeking over the top like a raccoon in a scarf.

“Dunno.” Shinji slouched lower in the booth, chewing the inside of his cheek. His eyes hadn’t left the back of your head since you slammed your fourth shot like it had insulted your family. “Wait it out? Die again? Somethin’ like that.”

“You can’t leave it like this. She’s in your squad.”

“Yer bein’ Captain Obvious again,” Shinji said flatly, rolling his eyes so hard his hat nearly slid off.

“Well, you better figure it out quick. She seems to be getting friendly with the lieutenant—”

Shinji’s neck snapped toward him. “What?!”

Rose smirked. “—and he seems to be getting friendly with her.”

SLAM.

The menu hit the table so hard that the entire room jumped. Half the bar turned to stare, including you.

Shinji froze.

So did Rose.

From your booth across the bar, you blinked mid-weeping-laughter at Izuru. Your brow furrowed as you scanned the room. The booth was suddenly empty.

But your senses prickled. A tug. A presence just familiar enough to set your blood to simmer.

“I sense… a bitch,” you slurred.

Izuru snorted into his drink.

Then, he slowly tilted forward and slammed his face onto the counter.

You stared at Kira for a long, judging moment as he groaned face-first against the counter.

“…Lightweight,” you muttered, with all the authority of someone currently losing a debate with gravity.

At some point after that, you must’ve finished drinking. You weren’t sure when. All you knew was that the bartender gave up trying to stop you, and even sloshed, you did not attempt to return to the barracks.

No, instead, you took the long way home, past the canal, past the silent shops, through the darkened alleys of a town that no longer felt like yours.

Eventually, you stumbled through the front door of your long-abandoned house, humming a stupid old jazz tune you hadn’t heard in decades. It wasn’t even a real melody anymore, just slurred pieces of a song that had once meant something.

Your voice swayed along with your steps, just loud enough to chase off any remaining dignity still following you like a loyal dog.

You didn’t notice that the old phonograph in the corner was already playing.

Didn’t notice that the cushion you collapsed on didn’t puff up with dust or that the floor had been swept. Didn’t notice that the faint scent of smoke and lavender was lingering like a memory.

You just dropped to your knees, face half-pressed into the floor, and sighed. “Tomorrow,” you muttered. “I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

And familiar footsteps.

The far door creaked open, and a slim figure stepped into the room in quiet white socks. Short blonde hair. Human clothes. A face you had spent ninety years trying to erase and failing miserably.

You blinked, fuzzily confused.

“Hey, doll-face,” he said gently, like no time had passed at all. “How you holdin’ up, sweetheart?”

You stared.

“Asshole.”

He paused.

“You… you…” You squinted harder, vaguely certain this was just another dream. Another cruel hallucination conjured by your traitorous heart and seven too many drinks. “You’re not real.”

He stayed quiet.

“I’ll deal with you to–to–tomorrow,” you slurred, waving one hand halfheartedly in his direction like you were swatting away smoke.

And then you collapsed backward.

Shinji caught you.

Cradled you to his chest like he wasn’t the reason there was a fire burning quietly under your ribs. Like holding you wouldn’t undo him completely. His grip was careful. Hesitant. Like he wasn’t sure he still had the right.

He looked down at your sleeping face. Lips parted, expression still tense, eyebrows furrowed in what had probably been the prelude to a legendary insult.

“Ain’t that the truth,” he murmured, gently brushing your hair from your face. “Let’s save tomorrow’s problems… for tomorrow.”

He got to hold you again for the first time in ninety years. Really hold you. Not in a dream, memory, or quiet corner of Karakura Town where he had to pretend not to care.

No ghosts.

No masks.

Just the quiet creak of the record player, and you breathing softly against him. After all, how long would it be until you properly forgave him.

“Uh… Captain,” came the hesitant voice of Lieutenant Hinamori from the hallway.

“Lieutenant?” Shinji replied innocently, just as an ink bottle sailed past his head and exploded against the wall behind him.

He didn’t flinch. Just blinked.

“Well,” Momo said carefully, peering into the office from a safe distance away, “I think the Third Seat is… unhappy.”

From the other room, a loud thunk followed. You were still out of sight, but judging by the steady barrage of thrown objects, you were very much in the mood.

Shinji tilted his head, still wiping ink from his sleeve. “Nah. That’s just her love language.”

Another object launched through the doorframe with such accuracy that it smacked the exact center of a stack of paperwork and sent it flying like confetti.

Later, much later, he would discover you’d honed that particular throw by daydreaming about pegging Aizen in the face on bad days.

A noble tradition, really.

“She’s gonna kill you,” Momo whispered.

“Not if I win her back first,” he muttered, ducking as a second ink bottle whizzed by and barely missed his ear.

She gave him a flat look. “That’s what you’re calling this?”

He grinned like an idiot. “Courtship.”

Crash.

“…You’re bleeding.”

“Romance is pain, Lieutenant.”

A paperweight dinged off his head with a soft thunk. He rubbed his temple and sighed.

“Yeah, I know she ain’t pleased,” he muttered sarcastically, ducking a pen that embedded itself in the doorframe. “What clued ya in?”

“Well,” Momo offered delicately, “perhaps I could speak with her? Suggest that criticizing her captain so openly might not be… appropriate?”

“Let it go.” He didn’t look up. Just flipped through a squad roster while sidestepping a stapler. “She already took a knife to my hair this morning.”

There was a long pause.

“You mean that literally, don’t you?”

“I do.”

To his credit, Shinji had thought he’d planned it well.

You’d wake up in the home he’d carefully cleaned. The old record player would be spinning that stupid jazz song you liked. A vase of peach roses, your favorite, which he had learned eventually, even if it took a few years of marriage, would be sitting beside the bed.

He’d be nearby. Gentle. Warm. Offering you love, apologies, and irrefutable proof that he’d never stopped waiting for you.

Instead, you’d woken up and assumed you’d been kidnapped.

The panic had been immediate. The elbow to his face was devastating. He’d staggered back, hands to his bleeding nose, as you scrambled to the nearest weapon.

You chose scissors.

He’d tried to calm you and explain everything, but there was only so much he could do while shielding himself from wild swings and muffled screaming.

Once the fear had faded and recognition dawned, your eyes filled with shock, then fury, then tears.

You hadn’t said a word.

You’d stomped out of the house silently, fists clenched, eyes shining. And he’d been too concussed and guilty to follow.

You hadn’t shown up to the squad introduction that morning.

He didn’t blame you.

Now, sitting in a newly shattered office, dodging desk supplies and trying to memorize the names of subordinates with titles like “fourth seat, temporary, maybe,” Shinji could only sigh and brace for impact.

Another bottle whizzed past.

He ducked it. Barely.

“Y’know, Momo…” Shinji muttered, rubbing the fresh lump forming on his forehead.

“Yes, Captain?”

“I deserve this.”

It took you three days to return.

Three days where Shinji held out a shred of hope that maybe, maybe, you were just cooling off.

But then it came to light you’d marched up to the Captain-Commander’s office and demanded to be reassigned. Immediately.

When that was denied, you went to Rose.

Of all people.

Traitor.

According to Rose, the two of you had a tearful reunion over tea and emotional closure, during which you both reached the heartfelt, devastating consensus that it was entirely Shinji’s fault you’d never been contacted.

Rose, smiling like a backstabbing angel freshly polished for court, swore he’d defended him.

“It would’ve been dangerous,” he had pleaded, apparently. “Shinji never meant to hurt you.”

He even claimed you’d softened, that your eyes got misty. That you forgave Shinji’s intentions, if not his actions.

That you whispered something like, “Maybe he thought it was for the best.”

Or so Rose said.

Shinji had doubts.

Chief among them: Rose was a dramatic little liar who enjoyed stirring the emotional pot like a theatrical soup witch.

There had been no softening. There had been a shoe. And a stapler. And that near-miss with a decorative vase that still felt personal.

Rose had returned from your chat humming like he’d just orchestrated a tragic opera, giving Shinji the kind of cryptic advice that made him want to commit crimes.

“She just needs space.”

“She’ll come around.”

“Try poetry. But not your poetry.”

Shinji’s eye twitched. Because you, his wife, were now being defended by his alleged friend, and he was pretty sure Rose had taken your side before you’d even knocked on the door.

Worst of all?

He probably deserved it.

“She’s been throwin’ things at me all day,” Shinji muttered, sporting a bruise on his cheekbone as he glared across the room.

“Let her,” Rose replied serenely. “She’s processing.”

“Yeah, well, she’s processin’ her emotions directly into my face.”

“Good! That means you still matter.”

Shinji groaned into his hands. Patience, Rose said. Time, Rose said. And Shinji tried. Really, he did.

But patience had limits.

For heaven’s sake, you were his wife. The woman who once kicked a hollow in the face for getting slime on his coat. The woman who used to argue with him about dish soap. The woman who made fun of his poetry and then secretly saved every single one.

You would remember.

Eventually.

Probably.

Maybe.

A shoe flew into the room like divine judgment and smacked him square in the face. He crumpled over his desk with a dramatic thud, forehead thudding against unfinished paperwork.

Momo winced from across the room. “Captain—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Shinji groaned into the wood. “She’s been talkin’ to Hiyori.”

Because that wasn’t an everyday shoe.

That was a tactical-grade, steel-toed, airborne message of rage.

It had the distinct chaotic energy of Hiyori Sarugaki’s life philosophy: If you can’t say it with words, throw it.

He lifted his head just enough to glare at the door.

Another shoe, its matching twin, sat ominously on the floor where it had landed after bouncing off his forehead. The pair now framed him like a shrine to his poor decisions.

“She’s escalatin’,” he muttered, rubbing the new bruise. “This is organized.”

“I think that was organized,” Momo whispered, staring at the aerodynamic arc the shoe had clearly taken. “Sir, I think it was aimed.”

“No kiddin’,” Shinji said, dragging the shoe off his desk like it personally offended him. “She’s weaponized household objects. She’s past passive-aggressive. She’s in full Cold War mode.”

Momo glanced at the paperwork. “Do you want to reschedule the squad meeting?”

“What I want is to go back in time, not fake my death, and maybe write her an actual letter instead of disappearing for ninety years like a dramatic bastard.”

“Should I… write that down?”

“No,” he sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Just get me a helmet.”

He needed a new plan.

A better plan.

One that didn’t involve dodging household objects like a circus act.

One that said: I love you, I’m sorry, and please stop weaponizing your shoe collection.

Shinji knew gaining your forgiveness would take time.

Hell, he deserved that much.

But he hadn’t expected you to refuse to speak to him at all.

He may have been your captain. He may have once been your husband, still might be the love of your life if you ever felt like confirming it, but you weren’t a pushover. You didn’t hand out grace just because someone came back crying with flowers and a bruised nose.

So he gave you space.

Time.

Distance.

It hurt him, watching you turn away from him day after day, leaning on others, laughing with other men. You wouldn’t meet his eyes. Wouldn’t acknowledge the bond that had once made him whole. Wouldn’t even throw things anymore.

Eventually, the fury cooled into something worse.

A silent, cold sort of anger. Impersonal. Efficient. You spoke with him only when necessary, your tone clipped and professional. You didn’t scream anymore. Didn’t cry.

And somehow, that hurt more than the shoe.

Everyone else was healing. The Soul Society was rebuilding. Friends reconnected, old wounds closed, but you and Shinji? You were stuck in purgatory.

Until the day he heard the rumor.

You’d visited a lawyer. One known for handling private marital dissolutions. Quiet, clean breakups were especially useful for Shinigami, who didn’t want to deal with the politics of divorce in the court guard system.

He tried to convince himself it was a rumor.

Until he found the papers, mourning in your office after you had fled.

Divorce papers.

Sitting quietly at your desk.

Unfiled. Unsigned.

But there.

The breath left his lungs.

He didn’t scream. Didn’t throw things. Didn’t laugh it off like a joke he could charm his way out of.

This wasn’t flirty, loudmouth Shinji Hirako anymore.

This was stillness.

The kind of stillness that came before a storm. Before a blade was drawn. Before someone vanished from existence without a word.

Spine straight. Jaw locked. His gold eyes narrowed and fixed on the papers like they had insulted something sacred.

Because this wasn’t just heartbreak.

This was the moment he realized he might lose you for real.

And that was something Shinji had never prepared for. Not even when he’d walked away the first time, thinking it would protect you. Not when he watched you from the shadows in Karakura, swallowing his own want every time you looked lonely, and he couldn’t reach you.

No, this was different.

This was final.

And he was angry.

Not teasing. Not wounded. Not desperate.

Angry.

The kind of anger that didn’t raise its voice.

The kind of anger that moved like a sharpened edge.

Captain Shinji Hirako at his most dangerous.

You went to one of his favorite clubs out of sheer spite and maybe a touch of self-sabotage.

The jazz joint with the swinging lights, the late sets, and the signature cocktail he used to claim “tasted like music and bad decisions.” You went with the most scandalous crew you could assemble on short notice.

Rangiku, of course, with her legendary reputation for trouble (undeserved, but so very useful). Captain Kyōraku, who brought alcohol with him and insisted on flirting with the bartender before even sitting down. Shuhei Hisagi, who joined out of chaos loyalty and a mild hope that someone would eventually punch him for fun. And Izuru, quiet and grim, but a grounding presence at your side. Thank the Soul King for that.

It didn’t look good for you to be there.

And it didn’t feel much better.

Rangiku had loaned you human clothes for the occasion. The kind that shimmered in the wrong light, hugged a bit too tight, and dared anyone to judge you for looking phenomenal while emotionally compromised.

The whole night, men kept approaching the table. You waved them off with practiced politeness, claiming fatigue, headache, and disinterest. Whatever it took to keep them moving. You weren’t there to flirt. You weren’t there to be admired.

You were there because he loved this place.

And you wanted to ruin it for him.

You stared out at the jazz dancers, moving in elegant rhythm to the beat. The music was fine. The crowd was lively. The laughter around you wasn’t forced. But none of it touched you.

Not like it used to.

Not like it had when you were here with him.

Shinji had come back. He was home.

And yet somehow, he had never felt farther away.

You must have been obvious, too stiff, too quiet, too sober for the company you were keeping, because halfway through the clubbing, Izuru slipped into the seat beside you, exhaling like someone who’d just barely survived a conversation with Rangiku and Kyōraku.

“For someone trying to get back at an errant spouse,” he said dryly, “you’re not being very flirty.”

You folded your arms with a sharp huff. That had Rangiku written all over it. She’d clearly been drunk-talking again.

“Maybe you should reconsider the separation,” he added bluntly, and you shot him a glare.

As if summoned by chaos, Captain Kyōraku appeared on your other side, raising his glass with a half-smile and flushed cheeks.

“Spare the man,” he drawled. “He’s been through a lot.”

You hissed at him.

Actually hissed.

Kyōraku raised both hands in surrender, grinning like a man who’d dodged worse in his time.

“Ninety years,” you snapped, “and he didn’t even have the balls to apologize properly. For all I know, he could’ve been off with other women the whole time!”

Izuru gave you a long, tired look and raised a brow, quiet, sad, and knowing.

“Do you really think that?” he asked. “Or are you just mad that the only way he knew to protect you… Was by breaking your heart?”

Damn him.

Damn him and that quiet little voice of his, always full of knives dressed up like reason.

You deflated all at once, like a stack of cards collapsing in slow motion. Kyōraku patted your back, far too pleased with himself for someone so drunk.

“Don’t be so harsh,” he murmured, though you suspected it was mostly to keep the peace, and possibly the whiskey.

You shrugged off the touch, staring at your drink as if it might answer for you.

“No,” you admitted, voice low and raw, “he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t do that to me.”

You stared ahead, throat tight.

“It just… it makes me so angry to think anyone else might’ve touched him. Might’ve held him when I thought he was dead.”

Izuru nodded solemnly. “You can’t hate him for that.”

You looked up at him, and his expression said he knew. They all knew. How much everyone had lost. How long Aizen’s shadow reached.

“We were all fooled,” he said softly. “By Aizen. By Gin… for so long, it’s almost unimaginable.”

He looked utterly worn down, with dark circles beneath his eyes like old bruises. You reached over and gently patted his back, like he’d done for you when everything collapsed.

“I don’t hate him,” you whispered. “I hate that I love him. I hate that I still love him. And I don’t know if I can let him back in.”

The confession sat there between you, raw and honest.

Izuru didn’t flinch. You just nodded and looked ahead, to Rangiku laughing too loudly, her shirt defying physics, her joy a shield she never quite set down.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I understand.”

And for a moment, the chaos around you fell away, just a little, and you all sat with the ache of loving someone you didn’t know how to forgive.

“There was so much pain,” you said, finally folding in on yourself. The words cracked something in you wide open. The realization really hit this time. He was alive. He had been alive. And you were still so, so tired from trying to hold the world together by yourself.

Izuru didn’t say anything. Just reached out and pulled you under his arm. Gently, platonically. You weren’t crying, but your face had gone pale, and your shoulders trembled with the weight of it.

You must have looked bad.

Because that’s when a zanpakuto slammed into the bar next to Izuru’s face, the blade humming as it embedded deep into the polished wood.

You both flinched.

“What the hell do you think you’re doin’?”

Not a question for you. A threat to him.

Shinji stood there, golden eyes narrowed, one hand clenched white around his sword hilt. His jaw was set, furious in that lethal way that made everyone in earshot go quiet.

Izuru went even paler. Slowly, he let go of you, both hands up.

“Yer the bastard tryin’ to steal my wife?”

Kira blinked. “I—what—no—”

You sat up fully, groaning like a hungover ghost. “Shinji, seriously—”

Captain Kyōraku chuckled from a few seats down. Then he saw Shinji’s expression and, wisely, scooted one stool farther.

Shinji leaned in, crowding Izuru back, placing himself squarely between you both like a jealous cat with a vendetta.

“It’s not like that—” Izuru tried, hands still raised, but Shinji wasn’t listening.

He gripped your shoulder like a man anchoring himself to the only thing keeping him sane.

“The hell it ain’t,” he hissed. “You tryin’ to be my replacement, kid? Huh? Got a hundred years on your scrawny—”

You grabbed his sleeve.

“Shinji. Stop.”

His mouth opened, then shut. His whole posture changed when he looked down and saw your hand on his. The rage didn’t vanish, but it folded in on itself. Contained.

“He’s just a friend.”

There it was. That flash of hope. It made his chest rise, made his expression twitch, like he couldn’t decide whether to be happy or even more pissed off. Still, his fingers unclenched just enough.

“You’re causing a scene,” you added pointedly.

The entire bar was watching now. Half the club had paused mid-drink.

Shinji gave an aggravated sound, yanked his blade from the counter, and, just for good measure, pointed it at Kira’s face again.

Izuru sighed.

Kyōraku downed the rest of his drink. “Ah, young love,” he said cheerfully. “Violent. Territorial. Slightly illegal.”

Rangiku, watching from across the room, just whistled low. “Ten bucks says she throws him through a window in the next ten minutes.”

“She won’t,” Kyōraku replied. “Not until after they slow dance first.”

You massaged your temples. Loudmouth Shinji was back. And unfortunately, he was still your husband.

“Piss off. And stay away if you know what’s good for ya,” Shinji snapped, not even sparing Izuru a final glance.

Kira nodded quickly, like someone who’d just been personally cursed by a ghost. Shinji turned to you and gripped your shoulders, dragging you away through the bar.

Captain Kyōraku waved Rangiku off with a lazy wiggle of his fingers. She looked ready to intervene, but he held her back with a casual “Let ‘em hash it out.”

You hissed at Shinji under your breath as he tugged you along. “Quit manhandling me, you lunatic.”

But no one stopped you. No one dared. Not with the killing aura he was letting out. Even you were beginning to get nervous. He wasn’t yelling now. He was too quiet. Too controlled.

By the time he finally stopped, half a mile out in a dim, less-traveled street, he was sheathing his sword. The silence pressed thick around you.

“I don’t wanna see you talk to him again,” he said flatly. “As your husband, since you won’t listen to me as your captain.”

“Husband?” you echoed, voice rising. You yanked yourself out of his grip, and to his credit, he let you go. “You don’t get to throw that word around like it means something after everything! You couldn’t even be bothered to tell me you were alive!”

His mouth tightened, but he didn’t lash back.

“I wasn’t gonna give Aizen a reason to hurt ya,” he said quietly. Firmly. Like that alone justified the heartbreak.

“You didn’t have to,” you shot back, breath shuddering. “You already did. Just by saying nothing.”

He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry.” The words came slowly, deliberately. “I don’t regret protectin’ you. But nothin’ causes me more pain than seein’ you like this. If I’d known I was wreckin’ your whole damn life… I wouldn’t’ve come back at all.”

And there it was. The unspoken truth.

You had only returned. Only taken your old seat. Because of him.

The air felt colder somehow, even as your anger began to bleed out of you.

“Shinji,” you said softly. “I didn’t try to hurt you either. But letting you back in means opening a door to where I can be hurt again.” Your voice cracked. Emotion built in your throat like floodwater behind a dam. “And I’m so tired of breaking.”

He stepped forward carefully, brushing your hair behind your ear like it might disappear if he wasn’t gentle enough.

“So yer just gonna divorce me then, huh?” he said, voice raw.

You flinched. Your heart twisted. He looked so wounded, like the word alone took a chunk out of him.

You reached up, covering the hand he still had in your hair. He shuddered beneath your palm.

“You weren’t supposed to see those papers,” you whispered. “I didn’t think you’d go looking. Stupid of me.”

His mouth pulled down in that tragic way only he could wear. Eyes shut tight, like he was bracing for a final blow.

“If ya can’t give me anything else without it hurtin’ ya,” he said hoarsely, “at least give me the truth.”

The truth?

The truth was, you still loved him. But you didn’t know who he was anymore. You didn’t even know who you were when you looked in the mirror. So many decades lost. So many words left unsaid.

And yet.

There was a glimmer. Something small. Something stubborn.

You lifted his hand to your lips and kissed his knuckles, soft, lingering.

“Not yet,” you said. “I’m not ready to go back. But I won’t avoid you anymore. Just… give me time.”

His eyes fluttered shut as the warmth of your kiss sank in. And then, slowly, a smile cracked across his face, gentle, weathered, and quietly full of love.

“Well, doll,” he said, voice softer than you’d heard in a long time, “I’ve been waitin’ for my first love at least one lifetime. What’re a few more years?”

As per the uneasy truce you and Shinji had worked out, your reconciliation started small, safe, manageable, and mostly intact in dignity.

Since he was a conveniently very busy captain, it was easy to keep things gradual. You weren’t rushing anything. Just a few evenings a week, in his quarters or yours, listening to music and talking like two people who weren’t still low-key emotionally maimed by unresolved decades-old heartbreak.

To your mild surprise, Shinji had branched out from jazz. He still made dramatic declarations about the superiority of Coltrane, but he’d started tossing in strange, beautiful music from different worlds and eras. A bit of rock. Some samba. A very questionable love of enka.

You would sit there, sipping tea (or something stronger), the two of you arguing and reminiscing and occasionally lapsing into quiet companionship.

Momo found the shift startling.

One day, she blinked at you both during a briefing and said, “It’s… oddly calm in here. What happened to all the screaming and airborne stationery?”

You gave her a look, but she beamed. “It’s nice!”

She also, alarming everyone, began complimenting your paperwork. Regularly. Enthusiastically.

“Third-seat is a goddess,” she once declared with deep conviction, arms full of perfectly filed reports. “An actual divine being sent to save me.”

You didn’t argue. Shinji just smirked behind his fan.

And slowly, very slowly, something unfamiliar began to bloom. Something kind. Something careful.

You liked this new Shinji. Still sarcastic. Still a smartass. But thoughtful in a way he hadn’t been before. Earnest, even.

And, unfortunately for your emotional stability, you still liked him. Quite a lot.

Which was annoying. And also, infuriatingly, a little bit wonderful.

It only took a week for him to convince you to “try out” a goodnight kiss.

“’ Sides,” he said, cornering you at your barracks door with that cocky grin, voice pitched low enough to make your skin buzz, “gotta make sure some things haven’t changed.”

You rolled your eyes, lips already twitching. “Shinji…”

He tilted his head, all charm and wicked intent. “C’mon, dollface. Just a kiss.”

His breath was clean. Mint and effort. You caught the hint of nerves behind his grin, buried deep, like he’d planned this exact moment down to the angle of his lean-in. That made it worse. And better.

Your lips parted in reflex. He noticed, of course.

“Troublemaker,” you muttered, trying not to laugh.

His fingers brushed under your chin to tilt your face up. Delicate, confident, gentle. That was the thing about him: for all his running mouth and boldness, when it came to touching you, he never rushed.

You gave the tiniest nod. Barely there.

He didn’t waste it.

The kiss came down soft, but firm. Not featherlight, not frantic. Just enough pressure to make your breath catch, to open your mouth and give in without thinking. It wasn’t a question, it was a promise. His lips still fit yours like they always had. Like home. Like something devastatingly unfair.

And then… Was that metal?

You blinked, startled, pulling back as his tongue retreated. He kept you in his arms, worried. “Whats’a matter?”

You pointed at him, wide-eyed. “Is that… metal?”

His grin returned like a sunrise. With a flick, he stuck out his tongue.

A piercing. Shinji Hirako had a tongue piercing.

“It’s a human thing,” he said with a wink. “Ya want me to take it out?”

You shook your head slowly, still processing. “Does it… Do anything?”

His grin sharpened to something feral.

“Some grown-up things.”

“Oh?” Your voice dipped into dangerous territory.

“Grown-up, husband-wife things,” he added, low and smug and completely shameless.

Feeling just the right amount of evil, you slid your hand up his chest, curling your fingers in his collar before leaning in to press a long, sultry kiss to his mouth. You felt him stutter against you, his hands tightening at your waist.

Then you broke it, stepped back smoothly, and slipped into your room.

“Goodnight, Captain. Perhaps tomorrow we’ll continue.”

The door closed behind you with a quiet snap.

“Yer the tease!” you heard him groan on the other side, and you grinned as you leaned against it, smug as hell.

Despite his impatient exterior, Shinji was surprisingly good at playing the long game. Maybe it was his century of experience, or maybe he’d just learned that persistence. With just enough charm. It was more effective than pressure. Either way, he made daily goodnight kisses a ritual. A simple request. A moment of softness at the end of the day.

And you, against your better judgment, let him.

It started harmlessly enough. A quick peck, then a few lingering seconds, then the kind of kisses that made your knees wobble and your brain completely abandon post. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. You were still figuring things out. Healing. Rebuilding. But somehow, his lips kept winding their way into your evenings like they belonged there.

Three months in, and your make-out sessions had evolved into something borderline criminal. The sort of thing that would’ve gotten you written up if any lieutenant ever caught wind of it. He’d corner you in the kitchen with a crooked grin, or pin you to the doorframe like he’d just remembered he needed to taste you again. The man had no shame. No restraint. And absolutely no respect for how early you had to be up in the morning.

You were tired. You were grouchy. And you were hopelessly, unapologetically addicted.

The worst part? He knew it.

He’d smirk against your mouth and murmur, “See? Still got it,” while you clutched the back of his shirt and tried to remember how breathing worked. His hands always found the small of your back. His mouth always found your weak spots. He wasn’t just kissing you, he was learning you, all over again. And damn it, you were letting him.

One night, you tried to resist. You stood at your barrack door, lips already swollen from earlier, and mumbled, “We should stop. Just for tonight.”

He leaned in anyway, brushing his thumb across your cheek like it was a promise.

“Sure, dollface,” he said softly. “We’ll stop.”

He kissed you for an hour after that.

And when you were finally curled up half-asleep beside him, you could feel the smug grin on his face before you even opened your eyes. He never said I told you so. He didn’t have to.

Because this was Shinji, annoying, brilliant, endlessly patient Shinji. And you were already halfway back in love with him. The only question now was how long you were going to pretend you weren’t.

“Stay in my quarters tonight,” he murmured one morning, voice hoarse from lack of sleep but still obnoxiously chipper. His hair was a mess, his tie half-untied, and he still looked too pleased with himself. “I’ll get ya the day off.”

You blinked at him through bleary eyes, your shirt slightly askew from where he’d been clutching it not ten minutes ago. You weren’t sure whether to punch him or kiss him again.

“I have responsibilities,” you mumbled, dragging your hand down your face.

He leaned in, brushing a thumb across your cheekbone like he had any right to look that soft after keeping you up half the night. “Nah, you had responsibilities. Politics says you can’t be my third seat anymore, remember? Which means I outrank you and can bribe Captain Ukitake with tea to cover for you.”

“That is not how protocol works.”

“Sure it is. It’s just a more seductive kind of paperwork.”

You groaned and tried to shove him away, but he caught your hand mid-motion and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. Smug bastard.

“Just sayin’,” he added with a wink. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing to wake up next to me every day, y’know.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart wasn’t in it. Not 

An exaggerated groan left him as he flopped back onto the futon like a man denied his final wish. “You’re breakin’ my heart, sweetheart.”

You arched a brow. “You’ll survive.”

“Barely,” he mumbled, peeking at you from beneath his arm. “At this rate, I’ll waste away from loneliness.”

“You saw me last night.”

“Exactly. Withdrawal’s already settin’ in.”

You fought the smile curling at your lips and shoved his leg off the edge of the futon. “Maybe tomorrow,” you repeated, gentler this time. And this time, you meant it. Because the truth was, you were done pretending. Done keeping your distance when the only place you wanted to be was by his side. Annoying habits, ridiculous grins, and all.

You’d made your decision. You couldn’t keep orbiting each other like unresolved ghosts. It was either go home or let go. And letting go? It wasn’t an option.

That morning, instead of heading to your office like usual, you started moving your things into Shinji’s quarters. Quietly. Strategically. Like a very domestic invasion. Just the essentials: clothes, a few trinkets, your favorite blanket, and the one mug you knew he’d eventually steal anyway. No one questioned it. Most already assumed your bizarre, half-repaired marriage was still active, just stuck in a bureaucratic purgatory known as “Shinigami emotional leave.”

Shinji, meanwhile, was in peak form. Harassing recruits with riddles. Needling Hiyori until she threw a sandal at his head. Offering unprompted life advice to confused squad members like some sandal-wearing, jazz-spouting oracle with commitment issues. Morale plummeted in your absence.

Eventually, he got suspicious and sent an unseated officer to check on you. Poor kid looked like he’d been told to face a Hollow with a mop. You told him you were “under the weather” and would be “resting” in the captain’s quarters. Technically true. Emotionally misleading.

Later that night, Shinji arrived looking like the world’s most chaotic nurse, arms full with a half-leaking soup container, a questionably sanitized thermometer he’d swiped from Fourth Squad, and the kind of determined expression that said yes, he would spoon-feed you back into marital bliss if it killed him.

“Hey, ya here?” he called, already setting the soup down with a splatter and the sort of reckless care only he could manage.

That’s when he saw it.

Laid out on the table like a fashion crime scene: one of his human-world outfits. Collared shirt. Slim black pants. A perfectly folded tie. And, of course, that ridiculous fedora he refused to admit he loved. Perched on top was a single note in your handwriting.

Put it on.

He stared at it like it might explode. Then, curious and vaguely amused, he obeyed. No arguing, no questions. The clothes fit just like they used to, which was equal parts comforting and unsettling. They felt like a version of himself frozen in time. The cocky, half-broken idiot who nearly lost you for good.

Dressed and vaguely suspicious that this was some kind of trap (sexy or otherwise), he wandered toward the bedroom, spinning the fedora on one finger like a man preparing to make either a dramatic entrance or a terrible mistake.

Then he saw you.

Sitting on his bed. In nothing but one of his shirts. Legs crossed. Smirk weaponized.

“Hey, dollface,” you said, doing your worst Shinji impression. “How ’bout you come give me a kiss?”

The accent was so bad it might’ve qualified as slander, but he looked like he was about to laugh and cry at the same time. His heart tripped over itself.

He slipped off the tie with two fingers like it offended him, flicked the hat to the dresser with one clean toss, and crossed the room like a man walking into a dream he didn’t dare wake up from.

“I gotta give it to ya,” he murmured, voice reverent as he approached. “You know me better than I know myself.”

“I need a status report,” she barked, arms crossed like she expected him to produce a clipboard.

Rose looked up from his shamisen, perfectly calm. “Good afternoon to you, too.”

“Don’t start. Just tell me—did those two finally get their act together or what?”

He set his instrument aside with care. “If by ‘get their act together’ you mean they’re living together again and she’s reorganized his entire teacup shelf by region and glaze type. Then yes. Harmony has returned to the Seireitei.”

Hiyori wrinkled her nose and dropped into a chair with a theatrical groan. “Disgusting. He’s been humming again. Like actual melodies. Thought maybe he got possessed.”

Rose poured her tea with a graceful hand. “Nope. Just Shinji’s signature brand of romantic nonsense. He seems… sincerely happy.”

She eyed the ornate teacup as she took it. “They’re such a weird pair. She’s all business. Efficient. Probably thinks emotions are a biohazard. And Shinji? Shinji’s a nicotine ghost with a jazz addiction.”

Rose chuckled behind his fan. “He says they balance each other. Yin and yang. Order and chaos. Dramatic sigh and tired eye roll.”

“I still say she could’ve done better.” Hiyori took a loud sip. “But whatever.”

“She did leave him once. He practically disintegrated. I thought we’d have to sweep him into a dustpan.”

“Idiot wouldn’t shut up about her even while pretending he didn’t care,” she muttered, but her tone had softened.

“I’m just relieved they found their way back. It was starting to depress even me.”

She made a gagging sound into her tea.

“Look,” she said reluctantly. “It’s not like I don’t like her. She’s smart. She’s capable. She’s terrifying. And then there’s Shinji.”

Rose raised a brow. “Opposites attract.”

“She’s the only reason his squad still runs. I caught him hiding paperwork in a rice barrel.”

“He says she makes the place feel like a home,” Rose said, smiling faintly. “Also claims she doesn’t yell when he folds towels correctly.”

Hiyori narrowed her eyes. “They have towels now?”

“Color-coded,” Rose confirmed. “Folded. Stacked. Labeled.”

She blinked. “Alright, that’s too far. I gotta go make sure he hasn’t been replaced with a gigai.”

They sat in companionable silence for a beat before Rose tilted his head.

“By the way… have you noticed her spiritual pressure lately?”

“What about it?”

“It’s shifting. Gradually. Subtly. But unmistakably.”

Hiyori stilled, setting down her cup. “You serious?”

“I asked Shinji. He noticed it too. Didn’t say much, just smiled like someone handed him the whole world in a teacup.”

She stared. “You think she’s…?”

He gave a single nod.

“Oh hell.” Hiyori rubbed her face. “That idiot’s gonna be a dad. He’s gonna tell bedtime stories about jazz theory and existential dread.”

“And she’ll make sure the child doesn’t grow up feral,” Rose said.

Hiyori snorted. “Yeah… guess that kid might actually turn out alright.”

“And Shinji?”

“He better not cry when I knit the kid socks,” she grumbled.

Rose laughed softly. “That’s very generous of you.”

“Tch. Whatever. Somebody’s gotta teach the next generation how to kick people properly.”

They clinked teacups without ceremony because, somehow, impossibly, the world hadn’t ended.