Gin knows that having an addiction to a man like Aizen Sousuke isn’t healthy for him. But from the moment he meets the man, there is nothing he can do to stop the desire. Even if it poisons him all the way through, he demands every morsel and bitter taste of Aizen’s affections.
Sharp and acrid to the point of pain, it is there, sliding its way inside of him, and even if he wants to, he can’t detangle it from the threads of his being. This craving, it is unavoidable.
It is only part of the reason why he follows the man, part of the reason he hungers for the paradise that Aizen desires.
He thinks that he would very much rather sit at the feet of a soft-spoken demon with graceful, talented hands than find himself at the end of a Shinigami’s zanpakutou with their hollow words and duplicitous rules and laws. After all, Gin long ago lost his conviction in Seireitei’s ability to direct anything before it ever manages to sprout to life. And he believes that under the coercion of Aizen’s lips, the wonderful taste of his sin, he can find a world to become lost in.
He knows it would probably be better for him, healthier even, if he walks away from this sensual lure, this sadistic web that Aizen has trapped him in. If anyone were to see him now, they would chirp, “Gin’s like Izuru now, ne? Just a pretty little plaything. Wonder how long it took Aizen to claim that innocence.”
Or at least, that’s what Gin imagines they would say. He likes to think about it sometimes, panting on the floor and staring at the black night of Hueco Mundo and its solitary moon.
He supposes that it might be true. After all, he’s contributed nothing since leaving Soul Society, spending most of his time on his back, body shuddering as bits and pieces of his flesh are torn away, leaving him covered in his own blood. He bathes in the feel of fingers pressed into his skin, leaving black and purple bruises behind. He likes the subtle warmth of moist breath on the curve of his ear.
Still, there are truths of which Gin remains startlingly aware.
The Arrancar aren’t there to follow him, but instead, cast earnest eyes on Aizen, crawling and scrambling over each other, hoping for a complimentary look to fall their direction. Gin supposes he can understand their desire to please. He knows his purpose; he serves it well. And while he doesn’t find himself dissatisfied with his position, Gin hates that even he wishes for those same words to fall from Aizen’s lips sometimes.
He knows that there must be something wrong with him, something that’s just not quite right. And every time, he goes crawling back for more. Literally crawling since it is like his legs won’t carry him. He basks in the overpowering pulse of Aizen’s reiatsu and hums happily, pleased with every brush of fingers over his skin.
He doesn’t care that he will be a prince of heaven, that Aizen has already decreed that he will be one. All Gin desires is just a taste of the affection he has been denied all his life. He is just as much under the man’s spell as poor Hinamori and all the rest of them. The only difference is that he goes willingly, eyes wide open.
And he knows that he should be bitter in some way, knows that his pride is supposed to be outraged against this sort of thing. He understands he should break away from such unhealthy urges, feels it in his very soul.
Then again, Gin never has been one to follow the rules. And he doesn’t see a good reason to start now.