#bleach gin

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."

“do ya know what lieutenant kira said this morning?”

whirling around in surprise, you nearly drop the entire stack of papers bundled in your arms on the floor instead of the aforementioned lieutenant’s desk. gin emerges from a secluded corner by the door, stepping out of the shadows to shut it with a faint click. his perpetual smile widens at your startled reaction.

“he said ya wanna transfer to a different division—already put in a request.” he pulls a document from his haori and waves it in your direction, smirking when you notice your handwriting scrawled across the page.

his lips curve impossibly further as you remain silent, placing the paperwork on the desk and organising it into a neat pile to distract yourself from his unsettling presence. unease brews in your gut: every primal instinct screams at you to flee, but his venom has seeped into your veins, rendering you immobile.

gin crosses the threshold in a few long strides, slithering into your personal space without a care for boundaries. irritated, you huff as he intently watches you organise the pile, enjoying how your entire body tenses due to his proximity. in one swift manoeuvre, he pins you against the desk with his lithe frame.

you can practically hear the mocking grin in his voice as he says: “it’s rude to ignore yer captain.” he presses his chest into your back firmly, clearly enjoying how he’s obtained the upper hand before you’ve even got a word in.

“i don’t like you,” you finally admit with a scowl. “i don’t trust you, either.”

“s’that so?” he raises an eyebrow at your honesty. “that hurts my feelings, ya know? but—” his fingers grasp your jaw, tilting your head back until you meet his lidded gaze, “—right now, i’m still yer captain. i think ya oughtta apologise, hm?”

despite the mocking lilt in his tone, it’s not a suggestion: it’s an order.

tension hangs in the air, slowly heating with each breath between you. your tongue is heavy with defiance: unwilling to concede to a man with such disconcerting tendencies. trapped between his body and the smooth wood only confirms your distrust isn’t unwarranted.

“my, my…ain’t ya rude today?” gin’s laugh is humourless. his timbre becomes more blatantly sinister when he unwinds himself from you and instructs: “get on yer knees.”

you lower yourself to the ground of your own volition: impatient to suffer the consequences of slighting your captain so you can remove yourself from this uncomfortable situation. with bated breath, you gulp as his hand grasps the hilt of his zanpakutō.

the blade—shorter than the average shinigami’s—reflects the sunlight filtering through the window. when it’s fully withdrawn, the tip of the sword prods your jugular vein. pressed against your throat, he drags the pointed metal down towards your chest, admiring the way the blood trickles from your sliced skin to pool on your chest and paint the neckline of your shihakushō red.

gin tuts. “yer so dirty.” you’re uncertain if he’s talking to you or shinsō. however, he definitely addresses you next. “yer gonna lick it clean, then thank me for it.”

resistance waning, your tongue darts out to run itself along the edge of the steel. the tang of iron accumulates on your taste buds, but you lap it up obediently nonetheless. you wonder what other horrors leave an invisible stain on the silver. hollows, unquestionably—yet perhaps that alone isn’t enough to satiate him? perhaps shinsō’s thirst has been quenched with the lives of innocents, or—your breath catches—even fellow shinigami?

cautiously, you retract from the hypnotic glint of his zanpakutō, licking the remnants of blood from your lips. “thank you, captain ichimaru,” you murmur.

gin ruffles your hair approvingly. “knew ya could be good for me. just needed a little persuadin’, hm?”

the praise ignites a fire you didn’t know was sparking in your belly. it occurs to you then that you like this: like parting your lips to receive his zanpakutō in your mouth—like the taste of your own blood and the knowledge he could obtain more with just the slightest flick of his wrist.

he isn’t oblivious to the tell-tale squeeze of your thighs attempting to quell the heat burning within you. he gasps in faux horror, not bothering to disguise his glee. “oh, yer are a naughty girl.” he pats the wood beside your head. “sit.”

although you oblige, a prickling shame heats your cheeks. “this is lieutenant kira’s desk,” you state the obvious. “what if he comes back?”

“then he’ll have a real nice view of what i’m gonna do to ya,” he purrs.

slipping into the gap between your legs, gin pushes them further apart. with your shihakushō bundled at your hips, he has the perfect perspective of your drenched panties. he hums appreciatively as he tugs them to the side, staring at the arousal drooling from your pussy. absently, he smears your wetness on the desk: further disrespect to the overworked lieutenant kira. he forces him into performing all administrative tasks, and then takes advantage of his absence by having his way with you on his workspace.

“please, captain,” you whine, irritated that you’re only being subjected to his stare instead of his touch.

he ignores your plea, inspecting your exposed sex with a leer. he turns shinsō so the blade points at himself: his hand a tight fist resting against the tsuba. eyes narrowing further, he notches the hilt of his sword against your dripping entrance. you attempt to wriggle away, but his free hand finds itself at your throat with a punishing grip.

“be a good lil’ sheath for me, hm?” is what gin sneers at you before plunging the handle into your tight heat.

you choke out a gasp as the foreign object enters you. clamping your eyes shut whilst humiliation courses through you, you splutter out the syllables of his rank. the punishment of being debased by the hilt of his zanpakutō instead of his cock—untouched and protruding from beneath his shinigami robes—only fuels the shame coiling inside you.

the rough material wound around the handle delivers a strange friction to your fluttering walls. conflicted, your shaking body can’t decide if the burn is pleasurable or painful: regardless, you know you would beg him to keep going if he stopped. it’s so deep and snug inside you. every thrust into your sweet spot has you clawing at his wrist, occasionally slicing your palm or fingers on the blade. in your fervour, you don’t notice the blood flowing from your broken skin.

“yer makin’ such a mess.” gin releases his hold on your throat, but his fingers still dig into the sensitive skin there. “if ya’d left, it woulda been a cryin’ shame, ‘cause i think shinsō really likes ya.” he twists the hilt and the change in angle has you sobbing something unintelligible, your release spraying onto the blade itself—as well as the desk and his hand.

chuckling, he removes the handle from your twitching hole. the sticky webs of your arousal snap as he twirls his zanpakutō, returning it to a regular position in his grasp. he seems unfazed by the wet fabric. “ain’t ya cute when ya cum?” he teases. warmth floods your cheeks.

another moan tumbles from your lips when he spreads your folds with his middle and forefinger, another wave of fluids seeping from you. “thought ya didn’t like me,” he mocks with a small cackle. “bet yer used to wish ya could run that sword of yers through me…but it looks like i’m gonna beat ya to it.”

before his words can really sink in, something cold and sharp presses against your flesh.

with a panicked shriek, you squirm away, but the threat of his zanpakutō aimed at your most delicate parts has you swallowing your fear and stilling quite quickly—too terrified of any potential damage to free yourself from this predicament.

gin tsks at your reaction. “are ya tryin’ to make me hurt ya?” he reprimands. then—the mocking cheer restored in his tone—he continues: “i’m sure yer aware of shinsō’s ability. how fast it can extend…how easy it’d be to just cut yer right in half from the inside.” the sadistic satisfaction he garners from your trepidation only fuels his cruelty. “could kill ya before ya could even scream.”

but once again your body betrays you.

why do you want to be at his mercy? was that previous mistrust—although definitely not unjustified—just misplaced desire? all you know is you want to surrender to his whim: to have him hold shinsō against you and show you just how insignificant you are—how easy it is for him to take your life with his very own hands.

more slick gushes from your clenching hole. gin’s eyes actually widen enough to reveal his lust-blown pupils, surrounded by the faint ring of his icy blue irises. an appreciative rumble rises from his chest as he painstakingly gathers your arousal on the point of his zanpakutō. a gasp catching in your throat, you blink up at him and watch him bring the blade to his lips: his tongue tantalisingly dancing along the edge, tasting your essence with a low groan.

“yer lucky ya taste so sweet,” he rasps, wiping his mouth on his sleeve with a devilish smirk. he slinks closer: his next sentence low with promise, breathy and salacious against the shell of your ear. “lemme play with yer a little longer, hm?”