Disclaimer: Bleach so does not belong to me. The fact that Ichigo and Ishida are not boinking like bunnies is proof enough.
a/n: There is nothing I could possibly say to stop this from being a crack drabble. All I can do is wish you luck on deciphering the rambly nonsense that my brain spits out. Also, if you dislike the idea of Ichimaru Gin getting it on with members of either sex, you'd better send me an illiterate flame posthaste!
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By Proxy
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It happens more rarely than a blue moon.
Maybe as common as a red moon, Gin thinks, and he decides he likes that thought. He always had thought red moons were the prettiest kind of moon, after all.
The body underneath his shifts, and red moons turn into salty sweat and sweet friction. Damp hair and slick skin and the stifled sounds of a puzzle that fits well enough, that mostly feels good, but that mostly is a puzzle that fits well enough but not perfectly, that feels good a lot of the time and is rough and uncomfortable in the space in between.
Gin can't put his finger on it. It's not quite the same as he remembers, and he can't entirely grasp why. Of course, he is older and wiser and more broken than before, and the body and the skin and the tongue and the hands underneath him are all different, but a niggling fly in the back of his mind suspects the reason the puzzle of limbs can't fit is because there is no long, soft hair splayed out around them, no blue eyes searching his face for the key to unlock all his little secrets. And that makes all the difference, the niggling fly claims.
And who listens to niggling flies?
There are blue eyes, though, blue eyes turned down to the desk; more sky blue and less grey, more foreign and less familiar, more obedient and less expectant. More shamed and less satisfied. Scared of the key and all the little secrets it could unlock.
Oh well. It may not be the body from his memories, but the thin frame and smooth muscles and masculine scent all please him anyway.
Gin smiles his thoughtful smile and offers gratuity with his hips. The body underneath his shivers.
Despite his ultimately irrelevant position as captain of the third squad, Gin can happily admit he has an exceptional vice captain. At first, he did not accept his vice captain with much expectation; Aizen did twitter his compliments: quiet and loyal, true and dependable, but why waste time threading a blanket of wool to pull over unsuspecting eyes?
Gin did not expect much, but Izuru has a gift, a gift to wash away old memories of love and loss and regret stuck behind sad blue eyes ("Gin… Gin, where are you going…?") with new ones of cornflower hair and eyes full of sky blue honesty, whenever he needs to pull rank under a red moon.
He nips the cup of his ear, the back of his shoulder. Long, steady fingers bred for killing dance up the inside of his thigh and away again. A subdued sigh and the body underneath his bends closer to the desk, arms trembling. He's close too, but Gin can't help but tease a little longer. Because Izuru is a good boy, a good subordinate, and he has a gift that his captain will keep on taking for as long as long enough.
And for that, Gin will sing his own praises.
Just before the fall he smiles gently and says, "I think red moons are the prettiest kind of moon."
In case you didn't quite catch that, the script form might be: (Gin reminisces about Rangiku while screwing Kira into his desk) The end.