Disclaimer: Ichimaru Gin and Aizen Sousuke belong to Kubo Tite. OC belongs to me.

I hated Ichimaru Gin.

I hated his voice. I hated his face, I hated his eyes, I hated his laugh, I hated his hands and the way he left a cold feeling wherever he touched.

He was so far away from everything. So far that I couldn't reach him, but even if I could, I wouldn't touch him. He was poisonous, filthy, corrupted, evil. Every time he spoke I felt as if worms were crawling beneath my skin, as if he had transferred some of his grime to me. No matter how many times I washed myself after he spoke to me, I never felt clean again. No amount of water could wash off his presence.

I was coated with it. Saturated. It was heavy and I could feel it every morning, pressing, weighing down upon my chest. Each morning I couldn't stand. I have to wait until the weight relents, releases me, until I can get up onto my own two feet. Each morning I can feel the chill, seeping deep past my skin, as if his fingers, light as spider webs, had just grazed my arms.

He was beautiful.

When I was born I saw his face. I saw past Aizen and the other Arrancar and I saw silver, I saw red eyes, I saw a smile so wide it seemed to split his face.

The marble lips parted painfully slowly and he spoke to me. His voice was the first sound I heard. I could see every action, every flick of his tongue, every centimeter his lips moved, when he greeted me.

"Good morning, sweetheart."

I knew Aizen had never intended for me to get mixed up with him. I knew that he never anticipated his strange interest. It became an obsession for me. I always needed to know where he was, if he was going to find me. I had to stay away from him, but his voice was always just a whisper away, and no matter where I went, it seemed that his breath was always ghosting over my shoulder.

I had no name. Aizen never gave me one.

Gin did.

He called me his catacomb hound. He called me his little lamb, his sweet pea.

"Ya always look so sad, sweetheart. Smile for me, mmmkay? Yer so purdy, yer like a little kitten."

Not even his language was pure. His accent pulled up in startling places. And when he mixed Spanish into his native language, the results were more sickly sweet than a foxglove.

His tongue would purr and I could never get the sound out of my head.

Gin was much taller than I. I had to tilt my head upwards to look at his face. I could easily see the pale, delicate curve of his neck, which was always so beautiful, like a swan's. I could see the strong shape of his collar bone. If I stood on my tip toes my eyes were level with his collar, and I've always wanted to touch it. I wondered if it was like marble, cold and hard.

I was never told what I looked like. I've never been offered a mirror. Gin often told me I was beautiful, but if I was beautiful, then I must be only in his eyes. I was like taboo. No one else talked to me. I was poisonous. I was infected.

I belonged to Ichimaru Gin.

He liked to twist my hair in his fingers. His fingertips lightly dance over my eyelashes whenever I slept. He kissed my eyelids every time he said goodnight.

The only times he would ever hurt me was when he would open fresh cuts in my skin. His fingernails were short, but were like little knives; they carved so easily into the flesh that I didn't notice the pain until a small arc of blood appeared, like a rose petal on snow. I had a collection of these little cuts; they spiraled over my hips, my stomach, and my collarbone, a map of red lines and curves. He told me they were beautiful. He would kiss each cut until it stopped bleeding with lips that were soft and cold, until it looked like his mouth was lined with rubies.

Every time he left my room his face was dusted with little freckles of red, but nobody ever noticed.

Everything in my room was white. The walls, my bed, the furniture, the linens. I hated the white. Every time I looked at the walls I could feel his mouth tracing the thin skin beneath my ear, and I'd hear him whisper,

"Yer blood would look so good on the walls, don'tcha think so, mi amor?"

If we met in the halls, he wouldn't say much. His hands would trace the curves of my waist and come to rest on my hips, his thumbs pressing lightly into my stomach. He'd tilt his head to the side like a mockingbird and he'd bend and kiss my collarbone.

Then he'd leave me with the cold and the filthy feelings.

Those feelings ate at my insides. They gnawed and they picked away at my heart, until it got smaller, colder.

He had turned me into trash.

He knew I loved him, though. I could see that knowledge in his eyes. I could see the gleam, the smugness, in the crimson irises that were barely visible through the feathered lashes.

I answered to no one else. I was enslaved to no one else. I didn't belong to Aizen, I didn't belong to the Espada, I didn't belong in this palace, I didn't belong out in the desert of Hueco Mundo. I didn't belong under the moon.

My only reason, I knew, was to be Gin's shadow.

I was not allowed to fight. I was not allowed outside of the palace. I could never see the sky, the stars, the sands, or anything past my windows.

I was to be forever lonely, pacing halls, as my skin grew paler and my eyes grew darker.

He chose my Arrancar uniform for me. He chose something that I always felt cold in. It exposed my stomach and my hip bones, the small of my back, the area between my shoulder blades. He was always able to touch me.

I was his 'pet'. I was his kitten, his lamb.

Nice to meet you, I'd practice saying. I'm nobody.