Bleach Fan Fiction ❯ Heat ❯ HEAT ( Chapter 1 )

Title: Heat

Author: Illegal Goddess

Genre: Drama, romance.

Characters: Hitsugaya, Matsumoto, Ichimaru, Izuru, Hisagi.

Length: short story.

Warning: AU after 116 episode. Het & yaoi both. Spoilers for the first arc.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Kubo Tite owns everything.

Summary: having sat on Orihime's roof for a while, Hitsugaya changed his mind and took her invitation…

 

HEAT

 

 

Ashes fill her weapon, but she's a creature of fire. It glows in her red mane, it makes her skin golden, it burns in her generous heart.

And it belongs to the traitor—all of it. All of her. Even her name. Hitsugaya never calls her Rangiku--never thinks of her like this—because Ichimaru did. She is Matsumoto in the tenth division's offices. His lieutenant—the only part of her that Hitsugaya can claim for himself.

He should have killed Ichimaru back then, and he likes to imagine that he did. Froze him through and through, cut his black heart out, and showed her… showed her—damn!

He leans his forehead against the tiled wall of the shower stall--still warmer than his skin, warmer than the water sluicing down his back. He likes it icy and comforting, a reminder of the power he has at hand, dormant now yet always under control, willing to be owned.

Unlike her.

He can pull rank on Matsumoto, but it fails to impress her. In battle, she obeys smoothly, but it's not him she deters to but the flawlessly oiled war machine that is Gotei Thirteen. That's Matsumoto in a nutshell—she recognizes the power, she might respect it, but she'll never want to belong. Her loyalty knows no reverence, and Hitsugaya isn't sure if he should loathe that or admire her for it.

Yet when she clashed Haineko against the endless steel tongue of Ichimaru's Shinso—was it there in her eyes, along with the soft demand? Something Ichimaru alone could provoke in her.

Hitsugaya doesn't know, and he doesn't want to think about it, and he cannot stop. It's an itching wound he must not disturb or it won't heal, but he's got enough battle experience already to know it never will.

Oh, stop with the pining, he tells himself fiercely. Think about something else. She's been here, in Orihime's pink girly bathroom, less than an hour ago. Think about that. Long red-gold locks sliding over wet skin. Think of that little smug smile she wears in the morning when she's had a nice night and is thoroughly pleased with herself. A nice, long, satisfying night.

Hitsugaya knows more about her nights than it might seem.

He watched her when she did not know. Tracked her. Followed her. Saw her smiling at the traitor, laughing with him, whispering into his ear. Letting Ichimaru touch her. Letting Ichimaru fuck her. Being late afterwards, wearing a sweet, shameless, sated look that visits Hitsugaya's wet dreams for weeks afterwards.

Damn it all.

Orihime's hospitality is nice, but he'd prefer to spend the night on the roof. He should have never agreed to climb down and come in. Except the roof was kind of uncomfortable and, fuck, who is he trying to fool?

He turns the water to full blast, but it feels better on his skin than it should, like a rough caress, and he likes it rough. Not that he's had a lot of experience to find out his preferences, but sleepless nights and vivid imagination can be held responsible for many discoveries.

Matsumoto's voice carries around the house. The bathroom smells of Matsumoto. Orihime smells of Matsumoto, and that's even worse and it makes him think about the things he really shouldn't consider.

Soon after Ichimaru went to heaven (pity he missed the dying part, oh well, the dying again one), he found Kira asleep in her room. She's a gorgeous woman, a wanton woman, her body an illicit dream, and her desires run high and hot—he knew she'd take a lover. Or two. Or three. Even with Ichimaru there, she did—and he only laughed and invited some of them to come over and join the fun.

But Kira? Pale and shivering and so skittish he covered himself once Hitsugaya woke him—how could she ever consider him satisfying? He doesn't even look like he's got any stamina, Hitsugaya thinks vindictively, the only thing he can do is to lie back and take it like a woman.

Hitsugaya knows. He was the one on top. Matsumoto's spare hakama lay crumpled beneath them, and Hitsugaya buried his face in it and came thinking of what she did with Kira that night. Kira, who was loose and yielding and whimpered at his thrusts without pushing back, whispering a name that belonged neither to Matsumoto nor to Hitsugaya. The latter couldn't care less. Kira still tasted of sake and Matsumoto, and that was enough.

Kira, but not him.

It stings.

It fucking hurts.

Why should she want him anyway? He's too short, too cold, too young, he doesn't know how to smile or please a woman like her. He wants no pity, no motherly gestures, no comfort. He needs no comfort. He's man enough to fight, man enough to give orders, man enough to take responsibility. She acknowledges it with cheerful ease and effortless respect, and it pleases him more than he'll ever admit.

But at night, he'll be a boy who finishes too fast and doesn't know what to do with his tongue, and his icy come will chill her insides. She won't be mad—she's too generous for that. She'll pat him on the head and turn his dreams to ashes.

She's a force of nature, she's a red-hot summer in shameless fragrant bloom, and between her legs is a sacred place to worship. He'll melt and disappear if he gets to touch her. He doesn't think he cares.

Captain Kuchiki had been there and survived unscathed, his frigid shell intact—Hitsugaya will never understand that, but it fails to keep his envy at bay. Captain Kuchiki is everything he is not, except, well, being a captain, but Matsumoto is not discriminating. No one can resist her. No one wants to.

Hitsugaya barely notices he's touching himself again, stroking himself slowly. I will make you scream my name until your throat is raw, he whispers, and the not-really-cold water trickles down his cheeks like tears. You'll see only me. You'll want me so much you'll beg for it.

On second thought, he doesn't want to be Kuchiki, tall and handsome and refined as he may be. Matsumoto was the one who said good bye.

Matsumoto got bored with him. Maybe he's just as listless in bed as he is in everything he does, Hitsugaya thinks, grinning until it reminds him of his own doubts and his smile wilts.

His mind is filled with Matsumoto—flushed, naked, hair wild and loose. She's a witch who steals hearts, and she's wanton, and she's pure, and he is so afraid he'll break what's between them already that he doesn't dare do anything. Their almost friendship, her candor, her trust, her light-hearted teasing he pretends to find so exasperating… he needs it more than he can say. It's the only thing she gives him freely. She keeps at it even when he makes an irritated face, and he secretly loves her persistence, testing it every time, but there is a wall he cannot let her penetrate. Cannot let her see inside him, no matter how much he yearns to open up.

He's sick and insane, poisoned with lust, and she'll pity him. He refuses to think of the alternative, which is her being disgusted by him. He tracked her every move, he fucked the man she slept with, but it doesn't make him truly obsessive, right? He's just a boy in love, and she does not want any of that from him.

She wants that from Hisagi, but not from him.

He hates Hisagi. Matsumoto obviously doesn't, and what woman would? Hisagi is sex on legs, and they look great, and they fuck great, from what he'd heard with his own ears, hiding his reiatsu and his presence during long summer nights full of loathsome heat and moans.

She talks to Hisagi like she'd never talked to him. Like they are real friends. Like they can keep each other's secrets. Hitsugaya wants to tear Matsumoto's secrets out of Hisagi to keep them for himself.

He's angry now, but it doesn't make his cock any softer, because Matsumoto used demon magic on his body and now he's always ready for her. It has to be magic.

He never feels like that when thinking of some other woman. Like Hinamori, who's so nice to hug, but he'd never do any of those things to her. Not Captain Unohana, sterile and smelling of medicine, not Ise Nanao, even though anyone who's got eyes sees how pretty she is behind her spectacles and prudence. Not even ShihÅin Yoruichi, who has the same sultry sway in her walk, the promise of wicked fun in her gaze, the body to drive a man crazy with lust.

Yet none of them makes him flushed and desperate, wanting to die between their legs and rise anew, stronger than ever.

He thinks of Matsumoto's mouth on him and it pushes him over the edge. He'd pull her up afterwards, kissing her, loving the taste of himself on her tongue. He'd bury his face in her hair, rest his head on her glorious chest. He can't keep her warm but she'll be his anyway, he'll own her and worship her and laugh with her and destroy Aizen with her at his side till the end of times.

And then one day he'll catch Ichimaru and freeze him through and through and cut his black heart out and give it to her. And she'll smile, dropping it in the dirt, and smother him against her chest, silently promising all the delights of the world to him.

To him alone.