BY : emmellie
Category: Bleach > Het - Male/Female
Dragon prints: 8580
Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Disclaimers, as usual. Bleach is property of Kubo Tite, etc. Borrowing for entertainment's sake.


She was only a child.

True, she gave off the scent of a woman, bled like a woman once every moon, was shaped like a woman... but her mind was still of a child. She was an innocent, white as the fragile petals of the lily, crowned by a cropped headful of sun-lit hair.

But then he was a child as well. Wasn’t he? He appeared so, though he was bird-thin, tall, and his hair as white as a grandfather’s might be. And yet his smile belied his age; a child would not smile with such cynicism, such elusiveness, such guile.

He didn’t smile when he did what he did. His mouth was too busy doing... things. She didn’t know what they were called, but they felt so despairingly pleasurable and she found herself succumbing to his mysterious ministrations.

As far as she could remember, she was alone. She was dead, wasn’t she? That was the only certain thing, as far as she could tell, though of course, there was no way of telling so surely. This place, this place she knew, was always desolate. She rarely saw others and when others came she hid, for they seemed savage and dangerous, for she was frightened.

The boy who woke her up and gave her food... He didn’t give her a chance to get scared. After feeding her, he offered shelter. It wasn’t much, but in this area it was perhaps the best. An abandoned shack stood there before them, and he led her in and told her they have to share futon.

She didn’t have problems with that. What was ownership to her? She had no notion of the difference between generosity and greed.

It was nice having somebody to talk to.

It was nice when he put his arms around her when she shivered in the frigid night air.

“You can feel the elements,” he said. “You really do have powers.”

That seemed to please him.

Of course, it made her nervous when he got close to her. It was something new, strange and nameless still. Nonetheless, it was nice to be so warm.

He didn’t have breasts, like she did. Hers were pressed against his flat chest. It was strange that way, for he seemed so hard against her, and that was somehow pleasing. The pressure, the subtle rubbing of their flesh through their threadbare rags when one or the other shifted sent shivers down her spine.

But night could be vicious, the weather unpredictable. Outside the heavens howled and raged. The strange dilapidated little shack withstood the raw power that lambasted it, though it shook and rattled like her frame and teeth.

“I will do something to help you,” he said. “It’ll be weird at first.”

She could only nod.

He touched her. She gasped but it felt nice and it did start to get warm where he touched her. It was her breast he touched, one those fat round things in her front, and her nipples--that was what they were called, right?--- began to tighten then. He began squeezing them, kneading them. She couldn’t help whimpering, especially when she began to ache not only in the swollen little tips of the globes he played with, but also in other parts of her body.

It was weird like he said. But it wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t. Like his name: weird, but not bad.

She protested when he slipped her kimono off her shoulder. She was cold! The icy air of the room was cruel to her naked skin. But then he drew the lone blanket around them, and ducked his head underneath.

His mouth was on her. It was such a shock that she gave a little yelp when his tongue flickered to touch her erect nipple. Tingles seemed to shoot from where he made wet contact, down her backbone, hitting hard at the center of her body.

First he teased the peak with his warm tongue. Her eyes were closed as she guiltily enjoyed this odd feeling. And then he engulfed her in his hot mouth, and suckled softly.

It felt good. Weird, but definitely good.

“It’s helping, isn’t it?” he whispered shortly, after finishing with her other breast.

She nodded dumbly. It was true.

He licked up her neck, too, and down her stomach. His pathways seemed to catch fire, for she was hot all over now. Feverish, she felt, and somehow unreal. What was this strange new game they were playing? Somehow she had a nagging feeling that she should know.

His hands roamed, as well, but then he touched her down there... there in that place! She slapped his hand away, with a choked cry of surprise. It was wrong, somehow.

“I wet myself,” she said, deeply embarrassed. “Don’t touch me there.”

“But that’s where the most heat will come from,” he whispered in her ear. “It’ll help.”

She was wet down there, indeed. And when cold nimble fingers slid between her legs, she jumped. It was a shocking feeling that jolted her, knocked the breath off her. But indeed it helped.

It was searing now.

Suddenly, he stopped.

“W-why?” Why what? She was asking him why he stopped. Why ask? Let him stop. Wasn’t she scared? Nervous?


“I’m thirsty,” he said.

Surprised, she blinked through the surreal blanket smothering her brain. “Thirsty?” she echoed. “The rain. Outside.”

“The rain here will do.”

What rain?

“It’s natural, tastes like the earth. And sweet, too.”


He slithered under the blanket they shared. Blankly, she waited, but her drooping eyes shot open when his long-fingered hands pried her legs open.

Oh, it felt ugly that way. Briefly, memories fluttered in the more shadowy portions of her brain. A market place exploding with the throng. A weary-lined, salmon-lipped smile of gentleness. And fish----smelly, slimy fish. They lay gutted in the dirty slab of wood, their innards floating in a bucket of brackish water nearby. Some were slit open from head to tail, their black bellies stark against their squishy gray bodies, their cold wet inside brutally exposed to world.

Thoughts interrupted, she nearly shot to the ceiling. She squealed in horror, but also... also in shock at dizzying jolt of that desirable, indefinable feeling. His mouth! His mouth was in that place. And still she liked it, she liked this desecration of her most private part, that place always people hid, always she hid.

Hideous, hideous! It was weird; it was good beyond words.

Hot, fat, and dextrous, his tongue wormed its way in that junction between her legs. Strange that the disgust on what was taking place came and went fleetingly in her mind. That was the place where the wastes of her body exited, was it not? The past was dim to her, but these basic things she knew, either taught by a forgotten teacher or blooming from instinct. Excreta was repulsive, the place down there should be kept as clean as possible though it was eternally dirty, but still the new sensations were blinding her and keeping her compliant.

Rolling like thunder, pattering like the storm outside... respectively, that was how the rush of blood sounded in her ear, how her heart raced like the million tiny impacts of water droplets leaping for the earth. Oh, and where was her heart? In too many places, it seemed, and such strange places they were.

Deep in the slick flesh he assailed with his mouth, an out-of-place pulse throbbed to ape the violence of her beating heart. Like he did with her breasts, he suckled, licked, nipped. But as he said he would, he drank, as well. He drank, as if from a freshly disgorged mountain spring, slurping every nuance of the strange juice that dripped from her.

Again, he stopped suddenly, and even through the intoxication that invaginated her brain, the sudden lacking was unbearably taxing to her.

Wordlessly, he sat up and loomed above her in that darkness.

“Are we finished?” she managed, unable to fight off the creeping disappointment.

“No. But it will hurt, what I’ll do next. Only for a while.”

“Will it feel good like before? Afterwards?”


He was fumbling in the dark. It wasn’t fumbling exactly---he could never be clumsy it seemed. But suddenly there was something against her down there. The sensation was even better than his fingers, different than that unthinkable thing he did with his mouth. The thing was hard and even hotter.

“It feels good now,” she said.

“Of course.”

But then it began to not feel good anymore.

The thing was entering her. How was that possible? It was scary and weird, but it was happening anyway. It was so big, and it crawled in like a snake until-

He slammed down into her.

And it hurt.

It hurt so badly.

She must have cried out. Tears were streaming down from her scrunched up eyes.

He wasn’t moving. He waited. She waited, too, because he said the pain wouldn’t last long.

The pain was fading. There was an obtrusive fullness inside her, a sort of stretched feeling. It wasn’t exactly uncomfortable but...

She squirmed.

He gasped then. Somehow it surprised her, because she didn’t think he could do something so spontaneous, him with his casual poise, him with his permanently fixed grin. Stymied, she froze and waited.

“Good,” he spoke to her in his slow beguiling way. “You’re ready.”

“Ready?” she echoed timidly. “What happens next?”

She resisted the urge to rock against him. He didn’t like that, it seemed, and he had been so nice to her that she didn’t want to upset him. But then, he was rather heavy. And she needed to do something. She needed. She needed something.

“I want--” she blurted out.

“I know.”

“What happens next,” she repeated.

“Do you know how to build fire?”

She had seen others build fire. She couldn’t see what it had to do with anything, and she was getting rather impatient, but she nodded against him. She wanted the feelings from a while ago to come back. She wanted.

“Rubbing two sticks together. That makes friction. Friction makes heat.”


“Movement makes fire. That’s what will happen.”

Oh, but she had seen fire build itself, too. Once,a there was a thunderstorm. Lighting struck a gnarled tree a small distance away from the hole she hid in. A very small distance, it was, and she watched in awe at the inferno that followed.

She was going to tell him so, but he began to move then.

It stung at first. He pulled out and slowly pushed back in. The second time seemed better. It still hurt a little. The third was strange. She ached still, down in that place he filled, but instead of wanting him to stop... his repetitive motion actually soothed her, taunted her, excited her.

She wanted to tell him about the lightning and fire, but she couldn’t speak. Her mind kept losing the words and her mouth refused to form them anyhow.

But that noise! Those noises. They were hers, weren’t they? Those wild animal sounds were of her making, clouded by the din of the rampaging skies. Because she wanted. She wanted.

She wanted to tell him about the lighting and the dead tree that exploded into flames.

Faster, faster! Blow after blow, her blood thickened, her chest tightened, her nerves coiled, her bones and muscles fused. Each of his thrusts must have been stuffing something inside her, for denser and denser she felt. Her limbs, her viscera, her every cell were crowding into her center, were folding unto themselves again and again, till no space was possible to squeeze out, till the immense pressure hinged everything a hair’s breadth from explosion.

Or implosion.

Release, finally. And lighting. Lighting came from everywhere and nowhere. Sparks of the brooding, roiling heat he had been stirring in her ignited in unison. And ecstasy, of course, it flooded her veins and suffused her inside out. Her heart had fallen down there, must have been jolted out of place by the violence of their movements; it throbbed, throbbed, throbbed and was the only veritable part of her wilting body.

It was weird and terrifying, but it was also somehow right, somehow natural.

Like the divinely powerful lighting and the scorched earth it left behind.

Tell him, tell him, about that.

“Lightning,” she gasped, the moment she could. “I saw it make fire once. Just like that.”

He had slid off her to collapse at her side. His head, however, rested at her heaving bosom, their sweat and heat mingling still. He was panting like her; the notion of having him so mussed and tired out vaguely amused her because he seemed so grounded, so cool. Too tired to think more on it, she didn’t even wait for his reply. Her eyes remained shut, and slowly she felt herself drift to the fringes of sleep.

“Lighting has it easy,” he said some time later, when his breathing had settled to a slower rhythm. “Creatures like us have to work for our amusements.”

But, swathed in the delicious warmth he gave her, she barely heard him. Sleep had already carried her far from consciousness.

In the morning, she awakened alone, dressed in her rags, and wrestled with the question of whether or not all that her foggy memory attested to really happened.

For some reason, she wasn’t surprised at all.

The thin boy with the strange smile was real. And like any other real thing in her life, he disappeared without telling her. Like that day in the market place, where she drowned in the thickness of the rabble, where suddenly she looked around and knew she knew nothing and noone, where she was a lost child unwittingly left to be devoured by savage reality.

And now, she was still a child. Her body, however, was definitely a woman’s now. With her child’s mind and woman’s body, she pondered on the events that transpired last night.

Last night was weird. But it wasn’t bad. Not bad at all.

Like his name. Weird, but not bad.

My name is Rangiku. You forgot to ask, Gin.

~March 12, 2005 (10:18am)
AN: Of course, the years would prove her wrong. O__O Aurgh!!! Ichimaru is scary! Scary and evil. @___@

Yes, I do think he's evil beyond words. o__o

Inspired (was this inspired at all?! Maybe by that devil Grinning Grinch Gin. @#$&**&^$%*$)by Matsumoto's flashbacks in 129 & 169

Regarding the minor warning: Though a shinigami looks like a child, he/she isn't strictly a minor, right? O__o If you're 70 y.o. and you look like Hitsugaya... are you considered a minor? O__o

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