Author's note: Something that isn't Renji/Shuuhei? Well slap my ass and call me a two-trick pony.
You don't get to be a very good assassin without being able to do some serious planning in your clever little head. To visualize your opponent, to anticipate their every move and strategize every feasible way to leave them spent and breathless. These are the qualities that make up the greatest of deadly minds and, to a much lesser-known but still potent extent, the most skillful of lovers.
She'll see that one day, recognize your worth and your loyalty. It will start purely professional, of course. She'll be humbled by her return, back at her rightful place in the Second Division and working under your orders this time, or at least as so it would seem. In reality, you know you could never outdo her in anything, not in battle or planning, so you would be perfectly content to let her call the shots from behind the scenes. All that would matter is the one thing you've been craving- her unconditional, unwavering loyalty.
At that point she would approach you intimately, with the respect and reverence you would gladly give her, if only she would ask. In your mind you can see it clearly, the way she'd caress your pale skin with strong but graceful hands. You can see the white of the bed sheets stand out starkly against her beautiful dark skin as she crouches over you like a shadow, a descending darkness to consume you whole.
You don't need any help putting the picture in your mind, going through the motions. Even now, alone in your own bed, your fingers skim the sensitive skin of your breasts lightly, oh so lightly because then it's easier to imagine they're her hands touching you. You know she'd tease you a little bit- only the softest traces of touch her and there to rile you up and get you good and frustrated.
Imagine now as you always have, imagine the strands of her beautiful violet hair tickling your nose. Hair so shiny and soft, just like when you were younger and she let you brush it. Running the silky locks through your fingers, marveling at the lovely color, which was so much different than your own. Overall, she's so much different from you. The beautiful curves of her outline, the exotic tone of her skin make you a fragile little doll in comparison. You, a captain and master of speed, are rendered fallible just by comparison to her. Isn't that funny?
Try a bit harder and you can hear the deep, rich sound of her hot breath in your ear, her voice as smooth and silky as ever. Concentrate on the incense burning on your bedside table, jade and lilies, just like the perfume she used to wear. Keep your eyes squeezed shut, and just focus on the image cast in your mind of two big, brilliant eyes flashing like gold coins under full, long lashes.
Feel your chest constrict as it would when she trailed her fingers down your abdomen- though her hands would be much warmer than your own, if memory serves correctly. Slender, powerful, beautiful hands touching, rubbing, teasing. Bit your lip to prevent a wanton moan from slipping out, because how feeble would you appear to be reduced to whimpers so easily? Even if you know she'd want to hear your sounds of pleasure. She always did love prodding people for reactions, pushing them to see how far they'd go before they break. In your own humble opinion, you're more adaptable than most people. You don't break so easily, even for her.
So you keep yourself in check, even as the ghost of her hands in your imagination press and brush so nimbly at the most sensitive parts of your womanhood. Even as you gasp as you tease the delicate flesh of your clit and imagine it's her hand doing it and not your own hands that are too tiny, too clumsy when compared to her.
Your temperature spikes, your cheeks flush. You throw your head against your pillow and rock your hips into the air, wanting more friction against your own fingers. If you could only have her touch, know the feel of her skin for only a second it would be enough to finish right now. You've done this so many times with her picture in your mind but it's not enough, it's never enough.
You could just scream in frustration, beating your fists against the mattress and cursing yourself. You had it, you were so close to the edge and you just lost it at the last minute! What kind of woman is expected to have any prowess in bed when she can't even properly pleasure herself. If only she was truly with you, was truly your lover as you know deep down she should have been a long time ago, she could show you true ecstasy and not this hell of anger and bitterness and deep and aching loneliness that has plagued you for a good hundred years.
Retreat from your bedroom. There are far too many shadows here, too many ghosts in your mind with their prying eyes that follow your prone and naked form to the bathroom. Close yourself off in the foggy chamber of the shower and pretend you just don't care about the temperature of the spray beating down from the showerhead above you, instead of acknowledging the numbness that spreads into your entire body from your core. Question yourself yet again. Ask, at what point did you stop being able to feel? Did ever know how to begin with? Realize for the thousandth time that you're a living shadow, just her ghost trying to fill in after she left long ago.
Calm the shaking of your shoulders. It's only because the water is cold, maybe. Wrap your arms around your chest and focus really hard on imagining they're the arms of someone else.