Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach or any of it's characters--that honor belongs to Kubo Sensei. I just like to play with them a bit.

Catching his attention wandering to the empty desk across the room for what seemed like the hundredth time since his fukutaicho had left for the Real World, Kensei was finally forced to acknowledge the truth that he had tried burying deep inside him almost six months ago—he wanted the kid.

So much so that he had sent him off to Karakura town on the flimsiest of pretexts, figuring that if he couldn't see the kid, he wouldn't be tempted, and maybe he would be able to banish each and every base desire Hisagi Shuuhei had ignited within him from the very first moment he had laid eyes on his lithe, bloodstained figure standing across the battlefield, the Visored's brand etched clearly on his face for all to see. The Hollow inside him had immediately surged upwards with the need to lay claim, and only the heat of battle had been able to prevent him from stalking up to his rightful prey and taking what he wanted.

After the last battle had been fought and Soul Society had found themselves the victors of the War, old man Yamamoto had astonished them all when he'd offered the Visoreds their old positions among the Gotei 13, and Kensei had discovered that the dark-haired shinigami that had captured both his and his Hollow's attention was not only the fukutaicho of his old division, but the kid he had saved more than a century before. Those dark eyes had haunted his memories for decades, the last good memory he had of Soul Society before Aizen had shown his true colors and his 5th seat had stabbed him in the back, and the combination of that gaze—dry and world-weary in a way they had not been a century before—and the mark on his cheek symbolizing the admiration and gratitude he held for the man Kensei no longer was had made the Vizard ruthlessly lock away his desire.

Unfortunately, desire was a slippery thing and not so easily subdued.

It slipped through chinks in its prison, sending tendrils of warm, rolling want through him at the slightest provocation: the spare elegance of his fukutaicho training with members of the division, lithe form moving fluidly as he sparred with new recruits and seated officers alike; the husky rasp of a voice damaged by a near fatal blow to the throat during the War, inquiring politely if his taicho would like some tea; the trio of scars running down the right side of his face that was a constant reminder of the friends he had lost and the three that had saved him, a mark of remembrance and devotion just as powerful as the bold black lines stamped across his left cheekbone. He ignored each and every one of these attributes, forcing himself to think of other faces and other bodies when he lay in his empty bed at night, hand wrapped securely around his cock and stroking himself to completion so he might sleep without dreaming of the man the boy had grown into. And it had been working, more or less, until suddenly it wasn't, and with a sense of desperation previously unknown to him, he had sent his fukutaicho to the Real World, hoping that he would be able to get a grip upon his unruly desire before he simply dragged the kid off and fucked him into the nearest hard surface.

He swore aloud this time when he realized his gaze had slid to the desk yet again, but this time he didn't force his attention elsewhere. For the first time in six months he allowed his thoughts free rein, allowed himself to dwell on Hisagi Shuuhei and everything he was, allowed the desire—the hot, unrestrained desire that his fukutaicho roused in him—to spill forth. His cock grew hard as the images flooded his brain: shaggy dark hair framing a face that was all sharp lines and clean planes, strong instead of pretty; dark eyes that weren't quite black but a rich, deep green that sometimes appeared to be dark gray in the right light, eyes that were not at all like that idiot former taicho Urahara's grey-green.

Closing his own eyes, Kensei imagined how that sun-kissed pale skin would feel beneath his callused hands, imagined the sleek lines of that lithe form laid out before him, imagined how it would feel to bury himself as deeply as possibly inside his fukutaicho and have those long legs wrapped securely about his hips as he rode them both into oblivion. Fingers making short work of his hakama, uncaring that he was seated in his office—no one would enter without knocking—he wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking himself with long, slow pulls as the images unfurled in his mind.

After having restrained himself for so long, Kensei felt his orgasm coming all too quickly, but he didn't try to delay it. Spreading his legs a bit more, head tipping back against his chair, he sped up his strokes, imagining the bite of strong, calloused fingers digging into the heavy muscles of his back, panting breaths fanning his neck as his phantom lover clung to him tightly, and he bit his lip hard to hold back a shout as orgasm swept over him.

It went on for what seemed like minutes, spilling across his hand thickly, and he slowed his still stroking fingers to milk the last few drops, slumping back in his chair as the aftershocks of pleasure continued to tingle through him. He hadn't cum so hard in ages—certainly not since he rejoined Soul Society and denied himself from pursuing his fukutaicho. Eyeing the mess he had made, he fruitlessly searched his desk for some tissues, then shrugged and lifted his hand to his mouth, licking away the glistening white seed staining his fingers and leather gloves. Thankfully, his white Captain's haori would cover the rest of the stains well enough for him to make the short trip to his quarters, and once there he would change and pack for a trip to Karakura. His fukutaicho might not look at him as anything other than a respected superior officer and the man who had once saved his life, but Kensei would never know if he simply sat back and did nothing. If his desire was one-sided—well, it wouldn't be the first time, and he had dealt with it in the past and moved on. He tried not to listen to the little voice in his head—his Hollow's voice—telling him that this time it was different, that Hisagi was different, that he should simply go and take what they both wanted so badly, but he shut it up with the ease of long practice. He had never once forced himself on someone and he wasn't about to start now; if the younger man wasn't interested he would have to let it go, find a way to bury all that want—need —and move on, just like he'd done every other time.

Rising from his seat, Kensei tucked his haori more securely around his broad frame to hide any stains and left his office.