|Bleach- "Body Shots"
||[Feb. 3rd, 2006|10:15 pm]
Title: Body Shots
Theme/Topic: The Bleach men are sexy men.
Character/Pairing/s: Ichigo+Ishida, Renji+Byakuya, ShuuheixYumichika, KyourakuxUkitake, GinxKira, GanjyuxHanatarou, IkkakuxKira, AizenxGin
Warnings/Spoilers: Whole Soul Society Arc, some sap, some fluff, lots of sex, and a little bit of disturbing imagery towards the end. ^^;;
Word Count: N/A
Summary: The Bleach boys are hot. Thoughts on some of their finest assets.
Dedication: My Div 14 chairs 2-6- I am a silly, disorganized 1st. ^^;; (Also, special thanks to tsurugi for keeping me away from studying, that quiz was too damn easy anyway. But of course you realize that I’m going to make you draw me some Yumi-back in the near future. XD)
A/N: Um. This is vaguely prony in a lot of places, but correspondingly just as silly in others. But I suppose that was bound to happen after the wonderful conversation para and I had about unhealthy fixations with certain parts of certain characters’ bodies. XD So yeah, we spur each other on. That’s how it’s supposed to work, right? Right. Anyway, this is mostly to entertain the yaoi fangirl in me (and hopefully a few others), so really, nothing to be taken too seriously here. It’s campy, gratuitously self-fanservice-y fun. XD
Disclaimer: Not mine, though I wish constantly.
Distribution: Just lemme know.
It must have been all the training and battling Kurosaki had been subject to in seireitei, because Uryuu feels as if the young shinigami’s size has increased enormously over such a short amount of time.
It makes him feel a little bit skinny and awkward in comparison, the tone and size of Ichigo’s musculature dramatically outlined in a school uniform the bright-haired boy might outgrow at any time in the near future.
Ishida can see the defined chest and strong collarbone of his classmate and rival through the stiff, white cloth of their summer seifuku, his trained eye following the bent of the fabric as it fails to completely hide all the rippling strength that lies beneath.
Kurosaki is now an ideal image of masculine strength-- the rigid pectorals and the slight jut of sharply outlined clavicle peeking out from the edge of an unbuttoned collar clear indicators-- and Ishida wonders to himself if the girls have noticed this too, if they’ve seen any of Kurosaki’s remarkable growth over the past few months.
From almost awkwardly tall and thin to a paragon of lean muscle and confidently looming height, the fact that Ichigo has filled out so appealingly can’t have escaped the eyes of the teenage girls surrounding them at school.
Especially not with all that talk of theirs concerning their preferences for rock hard pectorals and broad shoulders, of strong muscles covering correspondingly slender builds.
For the impressive development of his chest alone, Uryuu thinks that Kurosaki must have at least doubled his following of admirers in the last few months.
Grudgingly, Ishida has to admit that in that time (especially during gym class) he’s discovered that he’s become one of those secret admirers of Ichigo himself.
And if Kurosaki keeps developing as he has these past few months, the future could perhaps hold a rather grueling competition for Uryuu.
It can’t be much longer before their classmates discover how attractive Ichigo will eventually turn out to be as a grown man, given how handsome he is now.
The only thing Ishida can count on is Kurosaki’s inability to recognize the fact that he is admired by women.
Knowing that about the shinigami, Ishida surmises that his classmate’s rather dense nature gives him at least a couple of years to figure out how he’s going to ask Ichigo if he can lick his chest.
Ichigo can grudgingly admit that Ishida has nice legs.
They’re long and slender and white—how does a guy get that white?—and Ichigo’s seen the way they move out on the track when they’re running laps for gym, the archer’s pale limbs attracting the shinigami’s attention during those mindless jogs under the afternoon sun.
It’s not like he can help but stare or anything. Especially when those long legs of Ishida’s are just barely covered by a flimsy pair of shorts that are obviously meant to be worn by kids younger and shorter than Uryuu but just as skinny.
He thinks he might like the Quincy’s calves the best, because they’re nicely sculpted but keep the lines of his legs and their long, gracefully elegant quality they have, a weird sort of combination between delicately lovely and obviously powerful.
He likes that about Ishida too, though he’d never say it out loud. He likes how the other boy is almost soft and beautiful looking on the surface but strong and capable underneath all that prettiness, the dark-haired boy a perfect melding of good looks and inner ability.
Now, Ichigo thinks, the only thing Uryuu needs to work on is that personality of his.
And maybe getting a little more meat on those bones.
To what purpose those proposed alterations would go, Ichigo has no idea.
He just thinks that it wouldn’t be so bad to see Ishida with some more muscle and a little less attitude.
The shinigami thinks to himself that he’ll give the other boy a few years and see what happens then.
What, exactly, is supposed to happen in that time? Well, the shinigami doesn’t know that either.
Not really, anyway.
Renji’s hair is magnificent.
It’s an odd enough thing to admire in the other man to be sure, but Byakuya loves the vibrant color of his vice-captain’s long locks, the way the bright red hue makes Renji easily identifiable from long distances or in a crowd of the almost uniformly black heads that exist in Byakuya’s division. And perhaps the oddest thing of all, the sixth division captain enjoys the way his subordinate’s hair is completely unruly despite Renji’s great efforts to tame it, the battle the captain watches Abarai endure every morning with his hair not unlike the fights the younger man faces himself everyday in this place, this solemn court that wants to bend and shape Renji into a paragon of something he will probably never be.
The younger man always seems to be cursing his hair, throwing it up with a rubber band or a bandana and vowing to just shear it all off later and be done with it.
Byakuya likes to take a lock in his hand—there is always one that has somehow escaped the same oppression of all the others and fallen loose beside the nape of Abarai’s neck— and smile faintly at his vice-captain, murmuring, “You shouldn’t cut your hair, Renji. It’s rather nice as it is, I think.”
Renji always blinks at him when he says something like that, the brilliant crimson hue Byakuya is learning to like more and more eventually springing to Abarai’s cheeks and forcing his face to match his hair.
Byakuya thinks that it really is a lovely color.
He doesn’t quite know why, but he’s been staring at his captain’s mouth more and more often these days.
It might be because he’s looking for a hint of a smile there-- he knows he can see one sometimes if he searches hard enough-- but at the same time, he knows that those lips are lovely even without the slight upward curve that Byakuya occasionally favors him with.
Everything about Kuchiki Byakuya is aristocratic and elegant, and the graceful lines of the sixth division captain’s mouth are no exception, a smooth, full pair of white-pink lips that Renji finds an odd beauty in, come solemnity in their set or that rare, dry humor his captain displays once in a blue moon.
Byakuya’s voice is always deep and commanding, but his mouth always seems contrastingly soft and delicate looking, causing Renji to imagine that to touch those lips, to run his thumb over one or nibble on the other would take much greater care than he is used to applying in his daily life.
Something about that is appealing too, he surmises, the thought of letting go of the harsh, stark lifestyle they are forced to live as soldiers for a just a moment to let himself enjoy something elegant and gentle instead. The thought of a sweet taste of those enticingly tender lips is a marked difference from the hectic schedules of missions, battles, and training that shinigami are forced to endure, and sometimes Renji dreams about what a noble’s kiss might taste like, what Kuchiki Byakuya’s lips might feel like opening up invitingly against his own.
He gets caught staring more and more often nowadays, but finds that he isn’t all that embarrassed about it when his captain rewards him with a small, knowing smile.
Shuuhei thinks he’s developing an unhealthy fascination with Yumichika’s back.
He finds himself staring at it even when it’s covered, thinks about how lovely it is when it is bowed beneath him, when he can see the other man’s shoulders moving in time with him, the clench of muscle and the jut of bone under his chest and stomach mesmerizing in a way that makes Shuuhei want to run his hand over that perfect back, makes him want to worship the milky skin and the delicious curves there, the ones that just about fit completely under one big palm.
Yumichika more often than not catches him staring and smiles back, and Shuuhei wonders if his lover knows exactly why he enjoys taking him on his stomach so much, why he likes to flip the fifth chair over when he can and let his hands roam over Yumi’s sides, fingers tickling each rib, thumbs tracing the graceful slope of his spine and dipping into the small of his back as Shuuhei bites down on his lover’s shoulder and tries not to shake too much.
To be honest, he doesn’t know if Yumichika knows about this little obsession of his, but what he does know is that the other man doesn’t seem to mind all too much either way.
He supposes that’s all that really matters.
Yumichika feels most at home when he’s wrapped up in Shuuhei’s arms.
He likes running his hands over them and feeling every bump and curve, every chiseled muscle eager and responsive to his touch.
And he likes the way they flex when the vice-captain moves, looking like powerful, well-oiled machines.
He revels in the solid weight of them around his waist because the feeling is always reassuring, promising.
And admittedly, there’s something incredibly, undeniably sexy about the way his lover can hold him up, how Shuuhei can heft the fifth chair’s full weight in just one of those strong limbs when he wants to deposit Yumi in his lap or turn him onto his stomach in bed before spreading out on top of him like a familiar, favorite blanket.
And he loves what a contrast they pose. He’s seen them destroy in battle, has witnessed the force Shuuhei commands with his arms when he is fighting. But in a very different way, Yumi has also felt those dangerous arms hold him close in bed, has latched onto them in public and hung off of them, has made them carry obscene amounts of groceries just so he could watch them work. He’s felt them wrap around him and pull him down like lead weights for a groggy, good-morning kiss just as often as he’s seen them blow away lesser opponents in the line of duty.
It’s probably cliché or shallow in its own way, but Yumichika has to admit that there’s just something very appealing about having all that power under his control.
He thinks his beautiful Jyuu-chan just has the absolute most cutest nose in the entire universe.
That’s not to say that he doesn’t think everything else about Jyuushirou is cute as well, but there’s particularly something appealing about that sharp, aristocratic nose and the fact that Shunsui may be the one and only person in all of seireitei who is able to make such a dignified feature wrinkle in adorable confusion.
He’s the only person he knows who can get those sorts of delicious reactions from Jyuu-chan, and it’s a badge he wears proudly when he makes Ukitake flush after leaning his forehead against the other man’s and touching their noses together right in the middle of a big crowd of onlookers.
He doesn’t even mind the exasperated swats to his head his antics earn in response to those types of things, not as long as he gets to watch that pretty blush spread over the bridge of his lover’s nose and onto his pale cheeks, not as long as Kyouraku gets to imagine the other places that blush is going on Ukitake’s body, the ones that none of the other people watching have any business knowing anything about.
When they’re alone again, Ukitake always accuses him of being childish. “You always have to show off the special things only you can do to everyone else, don’t you?” the other captain asks, wagging a finger.
Shunsui simply laughs at the accusations and brings their faces close together again, tip of his nose just touching Jyuushirou’s. “Ne… Jyuu-chan, your nose is so cute,” he murmurs, completely unrepentant for his actions.
The white-haired captain trails off then, whatever he’d been planning to say forgotten.
His nose wrinkles in cute confusion.
“What did that have to do with what I was saying?” he asks.
“Kyaa, too cute, Jyuu-chan,” Kyouraku exclaims happily, before leaning forward to kiss the other man.
Jyuushirou doesn’t quite get the connection, but he always lets Shunsui kiss him anyway.
Shunsui revels in the fact.
He’s the only man in seireitei who can do this and get away with it, after all.
He won’t ever admit it out loud, but there’s something incredibly enticing to Ukitake about Kyouraku’s jaw-- something about the combination of its strong, square lines and dramatically chiseled angles and yes, even that unruly stubble-- that makes Jyuushirou’s heart beat just a little faster.
It always draws his eye, and when Shunsui smiles at him he follows the set of the other captain’s bone there, traces it with his eyes until he gets caught looking and Kyouraku takes his staring as an invitation to grab the white-haired man and kiss him until he can’t breathe properly.
When Kyouraku does that Ukitake can’t help but lift his hands and brush his fingers over the curve of that handsome chin, feeling his oldest friend’s rough hairs scratching his delicate skin as he touches him there, along the defined line of that strong jaw.
Kyouraku always laughs when he does that-- like it also tickles him when Ukitake touches his stubble-- and when they break apart after those dizzying kisses he nuzzles Jyuushirou with his cheek and sighs, murmuring his dramatic, everlasting love of the white-haired man.
It makes Ukitake roll his eyes every time, but in the end, he’s always the one tucking his head under Shunsui’s chin and feeling like there’s no better place in the world for him to be.
He just hopes that his lover never discovers his secret little fetish though, because god knows Jyuushirou won’t ever hear the end of it if Shunsui manages to sniff this out.
Kira Izuru’s most beautiful feature is his throat.
It’s the curve of that pale neck that mesmerizes him most he thinks, the graceful way it arches under his fingertips, his lips, his teeth, his tongue. The soft, smooth curve where it joins the shoulder is his favorite place to bite down and suck an angry purple bruise to life, and he loves grasping Kira’s throat in his hand and splaying his fingers out around the back of the blonde’s head, stroking with his thumb and watching as long lines of perfect muscle work breathlessly under flawless skin while he coaxes out wordless cry after wordless cry.
All of Kira is lovely, Gin thinks, but there is something about that delicate white neck that makes Ichimaru want to take it between his fingertips and worship it, destroy it, all at the same time.
Kira loves his taichou’s hands the best.
He loves the long, calloused fingers that are strong enough to ruin him and the touch that is just gentle enough to let him know they won’t. Not yet.
He loves the precision they move with too, the feel of a large, familiar palm stretched out flat against the jut of his hip to hold him down, or in contrast, the wicked curve of fingers that expertly stroke inside and make him gasp, make him arch up.
And his favorite thing of all is the way those strong hands will cup his face afterwards, fingers stroking his cheeks. He loves how they feel against his hot skin as Ichimaru draws his exhausted, shaking body near and smiles wickedly, leaning forward to press a soft kiss against the blonde’s lips as he murmurs, “There’s my good boy, Kira-kun. My wonderful fukutaichou.”
It may be foolish to think about it like this, but Kira thinks that he wouldn’t mind so much, when the time comes, to be able to die by those hands.
Because taichou’s touch is all he needs.
They used to scare him before, but now that he knows them like he does, Hanatarou has to admit that there’s something appealing about Ganjyu’s big, broad shoulders.
He’s never been very physically strong himself, but Ganjyu is his complete opposite in that respect, powerful like an ox and with a temperament to match.
It’s a bit disconcerting sometimes, but more and more, he finds himself liking how small his hands can feel when he stretches his palm out against the edge of the other man’s shoulder blade and can’t reach the curve of his lover’s arm from there without moving his whole hand.
And he likes that when he’s tired Ganjyu can hoist him up onto his back like he weighs nothing, carrying him the rest of the way while Hanatarou lays his cheek against the spot on the bigger man’s shoulder where the muscle dips down just a little bit, the perfect cradle for him to nap against, warm and safe and in the familiar embrace of someone who loves him.
Beyond the strength they symbolize however, Hanatarou knows that he likes Ganjyu’s shoulders on purely aesthetic grounds as well, though he’s a little more civilized than to go around blabbing the fact to everyone.
But if he had to say, he thinks he likes the rounded muscles on top of Ganjyu’s shoulders best, likes placing his hands on them when they kiss and rubbing gently along the skin there because the strength he feels rippling under his fingertips serves as a sturdy, solid surface to hold him up when the taste of his lover’s lips are enough to make his knees give out, enough to make him forget his own name.
Sometimes it gets like that, feels like everything is too much, too wonderful to bear. Sometimes he doesn’t quite believe that it’s possible to feel as good as he does and live through it.
When that happens, all he has to do is reach up and clutch the other man’s big shoulders, wrapping his arms around them and crying out until he feels a cocoon of familiar arms wind around him, until he feels a solid weight he knows all too well settling down to cover him from head to toe. “Don’t worry, I got you, I got you,” Ganjyu whispers, pressing soft kisses to Yamada’s forehead. “Almost there, babe.”
Ganjyu’s strength is his anchor, and whenever he needs to, he holds on tight to two powerful shoulders as the flashes behind his eyelids and his lover’s solid weight bore him out.
Hanatarou isn’t a very big guy, and at first, that had kind of scared him, had made him afraid that he might break the kid or something. But as time goes on, Ganjyu kind of finds himself liking it.
And what he likes best is that delicate little waist on Yamada’s slender body, likes the look of it, the little inward curve of it right before it reaches the outward swell of cute little ass. He also likes the fact that he can hook one big arm around it and pretty much have the other boy completely wrapped up in him, no effort at all.
And he likes resting his hands there when he holds the small shinigami, putting them right at the delicate curve above the hipbone and tracing the lines of the bones with his thumbs, making Hana squirm because the small shinigami is real sensitive, outright ticklish even, when Ganjyu touches certain parts of him just right.
He’ll wiggle and cry, “G-ganjyu!!” in a voice that’s half protest and half pleading, stretch upwards and wrap his arms around the taller man’s neck, shaking gently while Ganjyu pulls him closer and doesn’t let up with it at all.
Hanatarou blushes and asks what’s so sexy about a waist when Ganjyu tells him about how hot he thinks Yamada’s is, and the larger man just laughs and says something crude like, “a place to hold onto ya, know,” in response, earning him an exasperated huff and some half-hearted wiggling in his lap that constitutes the kid’s weak attempt at protest by leaving.
But in all honestly, he’s not really lying when he tells the other boy that it’s a place to hold on to, because it really is his favorite place to draw Hanatarou closer by. It’s where he can rest his hand when they’re walking side-by-side, where he can give a little tug and herd his lover against him when he wants to tell him something. Funnily enough, it’s also one of the only other spots on Hanatarou’s body-- besides behind his ear and on the insides of his thighs—that’s ticklish enough for Ganjyu to just reach out and pinch when he wants to grab the scatterbrain’s attention.
Plus getting the kid to blush all pink like that when he brings the subject up in conversation is an added bonus.
“I-I don’t just say stuff about you like that!” Hana complains, more cutely than angrily.
Ganjyu always grins and says, “Yeah well, I hope there’s somethin’ about my body you like half as much as I like this,” he murmurs, wrapping one arm around the shinigami’s middle and drawing him closer still. “Now shaddup, will ya, I’m working here.”
13. Kira (2)
Ikkaku Madarame has always been an ass man.
To say it so brazenly might be shameless or vulgar or some such thing, but Ikkaku’s never put much weight into something like shame anyway, and in any case, it’s the honest to goodness truth.
He finds Kira’s ass absolutely delectable.
He may be a hound for feeling like this, but watching that sweet little curve of rear-end moving under those ubiquitous uniform pants never fails to stir something deep and heady in his loins every time, and damn it all if there’s nothing about reacting like that to his lover’s body that feels wrong to him.
What it does make him feel is like grabbing Kira, cupping the blonde’s pretty little ass in the palms of his hands and squeezing hard, pressing their bodies together until they’re both dizzy with it. It’s always a perfect fit and the touch makes Kira arch up every time, makes him moan and press whimpering, needful little kisses behind Madarame’s ear.
To put it bluntly, there’s something about that adorable little ass of Kira’s that makes Ikkaku want to pick the blonde up—morning, noon, night, it doesn’t matter—and toss him over the nearest flat surface.
The fact that the bald shinigami feels like this isn’t entirely his own fault of course. Kira needs to take most of the blame on himself, because there’s something about the way that the vice-captain walks-- a subtle sway of this and tempting dip of that-- that just makes a man sit up and pay attention to those sweet looking hips, makes all people with red blood flowing in their veins drift off, thinking about what tasty little secrets Kira Izuru must be hiding under all those clothes.
Madarame isn’t humble about the fact that he’s one of the few people in the universe who actually knows.
And if he may say so himself, them is some damn delicious secrets.
He could do his laundry on Ikkaku’s stomach.
It’s a crude description, but an apt one that Rangiku came up with during their last drinking session together. When the blonde thinks about it, he simply has to agree with her assessment.
Before, Kira never took himself for the type of man who liked hard muscle and plentiful scars on his partners, but on Ikkaku they work for the blonde, make him think absolutely naughty things when he’s running his hands over the other death god’s abdomen with feather light touches, tracing the path of jagged scar tissue along the length of his lover’s body.
The one he got from his first battle with Zaraki.
The stab wound from when his family was attacked by bandits when he was a kid.
The long, thin cut he got during his first fight with Ayasekawa, when he’d underestimated the pretty boy.
The one he got from Renji, when the two of them had been drunk and decided to try something stupid with sharp, pointy objects when neither of them could hardly walk straight (Ikkaku refused to ever go fishing again after that incident).
Izuru knows all of those old injuries now, has heard each of their stories and committed those paler patches of skin and their shapes to his tactile memory.
His fingers can easily find them as they trace the ridges of firm muscle and rough skin on Ikkaku, every imperfection amongst the perfect shape of Madarame’s stomach sending a liquid bolt of electricity into Kira’s own belly.
How different from Gin this man is! Kira’s hands are the ones doing the roaming that Gin never allowed before, his fingers the ones wringing hoarse curses from the man he is lying beside. His hands are the ones lingering over sculpted abdominals and tickling defined obliques, his tongue dipping teasingly into his lover’s navel, his lips pressing gentle kisses on the sensitive skin just under that.
It’s joy and wonder both to be able to touch Ikkaku as he pleases, to be encouraged to find a favorite thing about the other man and fascinate himself with it for hours on end.
Ikkaku loves that Kira thinks his abs are sexy.
Just as Kira knows that Ikkaku has a rather shameless fascination with his ass.
15. Gin (2)
Gin’s got lovely white thighs, Aizen thinks. Long and pale and wonderful.
He likes to make them shake, to lay his former vice-captain down and gently urge those legs to open up, just for him.
Gin berates him for being so tender in his old age all of a sudden, so nostalgic, and Aizen always laughs at those accusations because they’re true, because he’s much more fond of Ichimaru now than he was their first time together, when the vice-captain was bloody and on his knees, begging to be hurt just a little bit more.
Maybe it is his old age getting to him, because his touches are more often than not only slightly bruising now; only firm enough to leave red marks on white skin instead of the purple and black that Gin likes best.
He begs the other man’s pardon for it of course, but he believes that there is just a certain age a person gets to when he has to stop going for the big showy type things and start concentrating on the little things that are important.
Like the soft skin on the inside of Ichimaru’s thighs, the ones that have borne the merciless nature of Aizen’s teeth and hands in the past, the ones that still have old marks branded there, faint little scars of possession left behind by a younger, more impetuous Sousuke.
He’s older now, so he can appreciate the beauty of what is naturally there, the feel of well-trained muscle quivering under his palm and the fine sheen of sweat that is beginning to build as he makes Gin wait, bound and spread before him.
“You really are getting sentimental in your old age,” Gin sighs, smirking at the other man knowingly.
Aizen chuckles and smoothes his hair back on his head. “Give a moment will you, Gin? This old mind of mine has to remember what you like best, after all.”
Gin shrugs. “Of course.”
Aizen smiles at his subordinate and thinks that the younger man really is good at ruining his introspective moments.
Ah, the folly of the young.
His smile turns from introspective to something else as he lays his hands on Gin’s legs and pries them father apart yet, almost beyond their limit.
Ichimaru gasps and the flesh under Aizen’s palms shudders.
“Now,” the older man begins, when everything is openly exposed to his level gaze, “If I remember correctly, you liked this best.”
He smiles and positions himself between the younger man’s parted thighs, thinking that with some effort, he can call forth the Aizen of yore and stain those pretty white thighs of Ichimaru’s a bright, beautiful red.
Aizen’s eyes are his finest quality. Beyond the man’s confident touch and knowing smile there are those observant, easy-going eyes.
They can look at Gin for just one moment and know exactly what the other captain is thinking at any one time, can without hesitation, discover the most secret places of Ichimaru’s heart.
A man with that sort of power is fascinating to Gin.
Aizen’s eyes are open and friendly. They invite study; encourage friendship and trust and easy, even pointless conversation.
They steal the hearts of little girls and the breath of smiling foxes; inspire discourse with peers and laughter from friends.
Gin thinks they’re the most cloudless eyes he’s ever seen.
So unflappable that they don’t even react when Sousuke is stabbing the little girl whose heart he stole or in contrast, blocking the air from leaving the throat of the fox whose breath he took.
Aizen’s eyes are that same mild hue whether he is bringing a young Arrankar into the world or destroying a shinigami. They’re identical when he’s reprimanding Tousen or fucking Ichimaru.
There is something beautiful about that to Gin, that openness and equality for all, and the former vice-captain finds himself at Aizen’s feet every time, his mouth, his body full of his first captain as those sage eyes look back at him with the friendly mirth of a father, the close trust of a best-friend.
Truly, Gin believes the world is better for having Aizen Sousuke in it.
He only wishes all men could be as openly honest as his captain.
“What are you thinking of?” Aizen asks, smiling as he reaches out to touch the other man’s cheek.
Gin smiles back, stretching luxuriously. “Just taichou.”
Aizen’s eyes sparkle back kindly and the fingers on Gin’s cheek tighten, move to tug forcefully on his subordinate’s chin. “Good thoughts, I hope?”
Ichimaru shudders and licks his lips. “Of course.”
Aizen releases his former vice-captain then, licking his hand to clean Gin’s blood from his fingertips. “Good boy.”
Can you see any edits I need to make? ^^
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