I don't own Bleach. Yeah. Also, this drabble is terrible and depraved, but it wouldn't get out of my head until I wrote it.

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Most of the time, he leaves quickly afterward, sometimes with some unnecessary, polite explanation and sometimes not. He leaves her curled on the floor, throbbing with a recent guilty, explosive, terrible, wonderful release. On occasion, he'll even leave before the finale - just to hear the soft sound of protest when he pulls away. Rukia can never quite stop herself from making that pitiful, pouty whimper; she always catches herself too late. It's not like he doesn't know.

It's not like he doesn't know that when she hears his voice down the hallway, calling a cheerful hello or goodbye, her knees start to tremble. Or that when she clamps her teeth and nails down on his shoulders, it's not so much to hurt him as to just hold on. That when he turns that feral, tight-lipped smile on her, she's already wet. He knows that when he leaves before they're done, she waits until she can no longer feel any traces of reiatsu before letting her fingers do the rest of the work.

Rukia still tries to justify things to herself. No one would believe her. Her brother would disown her. The last time she'd tried to run him through with her sword, he had simply run her through with his. The hilt, actually. And he hadn't exactly run her through, but it had definitely been inside her. He never let her finish a kidou incantation. Her physical resistance was ineffectual. There was nothing she could do.

These are the things she repeats to herself as he touches her, drawing her thin fingers up and down her front before replacing fingers with lips. These are the things she repeats to herself as his smiling mouth touches the most intimate parts of her and then she can't think anymore. Self-deception isn't something she likes to practice, but she has no choice. There was nothing she could do.