Rangiku wonders about Gin and gets an epiphany. Implied frivolous sexual activities and use of coarse language.
I love him, she thinks one evening while staring aimlessly at the falling leaves outside her window.
It's an epiphany. All of a sudden Rangiku is sitting upright in her chair, eyes widening, and hand going to the locket on her generous bosom. The next thought that immediately occurs to her is – what took you so long to realize, genius?
I love him, she thinks again, and something small and painful prickles inside her heart as she wonders how on earth she could have missed out on that little big fact in all of the two centuries they've spent together with each other. How she didn't fully understand the dull, persistent ache in her chest for the whole of the two years after he'd died. How she could have been so slow and dense and so fucking late.
I'm careless, she thinks, and winces. She tucks her hands between her body and her chair before she decides to scratch a fresh wound open on her skin, just to let the blood flow and remind herself of pain, and the delicacy of life. It was a disgusting and sadistic habit that she was slowly falling deeper into. Hitsugaya won't be happy, if he found out.
Neither would Gin, since two years ago it'd finally come to light that he wasn't half the sadistic manipulative asshole everyone believed him to be.
Well. Not a full sadistic manipulative asshole. He's maybe a 90% sadistic, manipulative asshole.
But that's not important. What's important is that Rangiku loves him. Now that's important because that explains why, while she's about as interested in sex and booze as any other horny men in any other sleazy bar, plain and simple interest was about as far as she got with any one of those men. Or women. Her brief spurts of adventurous passion never lasted, and before her one-time bed partner got the chance to enquire about her personal details or a possible future date, Matsumoto Rangiku had already scattered away, like fine, unnoticeable solid particles that stung rather harshly at one's eyes.
The particles, obviously, are of the volcanic ash variety. Small, invisible, but still hot enough to burn away flesh.
This also explains why she never took any of her male comrades' advances seriously, no matter how much Shuuhei flattered his pretty long eyelashes. She'd thought it was because of some in-bred deep-rooted dignity and polite respect she had for her fellow lieutenants. But then again, she would be the one to strip them out of their underwear for Round 1 of Valentine Foursome Sex, so that theory didn't exactly work out well.
Now she knows it's because her heart had already been taken, captured by one Ichimaru Gin, since two centuries and two years ago, when they'd first met.
Alas, now he is dead.
She slumps back onto her chair, and her fingers itch to pick at skin again. She resists. Gin, that bastard. Who knew that beneath those small squinty little eyes of his lay the most unnecessarily-complicated-hero-complex of all hero-complexes: the dark-knight-vigilante type, who's collected and misunderstood and completely at peace with one-sided-love-from-a-distance.
Their relationship was never romantic, a fact that leaves Rangiku seething with bitterness. Dammit Gin, we both deserved more.
Why didn't we fuck? She thinks absently in her brain. Not like having sex with her would have hindered his plans with Aizen and Soul Society. And it wasn't as though he wasn't good-looking, or that she wasn't absolutely drop-dead gorgeous.
In the two years that he has gone, she's had more wet dreams about him then any other time period in her two-century long life. Hitsugaya would be disgusted, if he knew. She wonders if he dreams about fucking her, like she dreams about him fucking her.
In the dreams his eyes, beautiful aquamarine, are always fully open. They always hold eye contact. He always kisses her neck bone, then her shoulder, then her neck. The only thing he ever says is Rangiku.
She wonders about the sex that they could have had. It would have been amazing.
A much safer train of thought then love, at any rate. But whatever, now it seems like to Rangiku that she's never going to find true love by the way things are looking, what with her stolen heart and all.
It's an oddly satisfying feeling though, knowing that the selfish bastard is the one in possession of her heart, all these years, and for more to come. He'll take her heart with him, even in his death.
Rangiku, contend, relaxes.
Maybe I'll do an "after two years" series. Might be interesting.
This turned out with a surprisingly frivolous air, but anyways Matsumoto Rangiku is frivolous like this.
Maybe I'll continue this. I like being frivolous Matsumoto Rangiku :D