WARNING: THIS IS A LEMON
YES an honest to gosh LEMON.
The sexual tension in my other Ulquihime stories was killing me and everything Ulquihime I'm doing right now has a kind of hopeful edge so I wanted to do something really dark and twisty.
So yeah, I wouldn't call this a PWP, but I'd say it comes pretty damn close.
He comes to her in the dead of the night.
All the world's asleep but she's not. She's got too much to do to be asleep even though the only thing she's really got to do is wait. Sometimes she thinks she's spent her whole life waiting and so often none of them come. At least with this she'll know he's going to be there. So often he takes control of the situation, of her. His fingers are careful, scientific with their precision as he undoes her cloths and explores every inch of her but tonight she knows it will be different. She knows he has been waiting too and tonight she decides all the waiting will be over.
She hears him enter the room.
Its a courtesy. He could be there in a moment if he wished, they both know it but he lets her hear him, lets her become aware of his presence. There are rules to this game, steps to this dance and even if she knows she is going to break a few tonight, there are a few that she keeps. She lets him hold the illusion of control for a few steps, the heels of his shoes echoing in small, warm confines of the room like they had back in the large, unfeeling palace where they had spent so much time. His steps are precise and she's sure if you measured they'd all be the same length. He's still like a solider, even if his general is long dead. She lets him approach her, careful to lay still and quiet though they both are aware she is awake.
He is not, however, aware she is nude.
She sits up carefully, letting the blankets slip off her and pool around her waist. Her back is to him but she hears his step falter. He does not know what to make of the change in the game they play. She sits still, letting her hair settle, its length almost clear to the dimples that mark the end of her spine. It sways for a moment before settling. She knows what he sees with those eyes of his. He sees the creme of her skin and the damningly bright locks of her hair. He does not see the smile she feels tug at her lips before she quickly pushes it aside and raises herself onto her knees, drawing her legs so the blankets slide completely off her. He does not move as she turns around and kneels on the bed, her eyes locking with his.
Though he is standing and she is kneeling, though he is clothed and she is nude, they are aware of who has the power here. For a moment she is certain he will say no. He will back away and disappear like he does if she pushes him too hard too fast. He is new to these things, she reminds herself, but sometimes it is hard to be so careful and understanding. Especially when she remembers seeing no mercy or understanding from him. She has not quite forgiven him for what he did. Not yet. The first night he came to her she hit him until her hands bled before his lips clumsily found hers in the darkness. Moments later he was gone. Even now there are times when playing the part of subservient is too much for her. What she is now is a challenge, she is challenging him to prove her wrong while all the time expecting him to act as he always does. She consoles herself with that as he stands there, his green eyes watching her carefully, suspiciously.
And then his fingers reach for the fastening of his shirt.
He has accepted her challenge.
She watches as his fingers undo the fastenings with the precision he used on her, exposing his chest before he shrugs out of the fabric entirely. It hits the ground with a soft sound as she moves towards him.
His hand is on the small of her back, pulling her upwards as his lips all but attack hers. They are warm and hard and Orihime kisses him eagerly, her arms wrapping around his shoulders as his other hand settles on the base of her skull. His fingers twine with the weight and length of her hair and she knows however bright the color is on her skin it is a thousand times worse on his. She feels the smooth, hard planes of his chest against her own and, somewhere lower, she feels the soft fabric of his hakama press against her nudity. His tongue enters her mouth and her lips part eagerly to reciprocate the motion. She feels one of his legs bend, his knee resting on the bed as his thigh presses in between the legs she spreads easily to accommodate.
The heat that coils through her is exquisite. She does not feel safe in his arms, though she knows if anyone tried to hurt her he would kill them in a heartbeat. He is dangerous and she is aware of that in every press of marble against her skin. He is not human either, a fact she cannot forget when his helmet scrapes her shoulder or her lust fogged eyes see the way his bone white hand presses against her skin. But it is the danger of it that thrills her. The knowledge that the man who presses himself against could kill her without so much as a second thought. The knowledge that if they are discovered they will both probably be stripped of their powers and cast to the wind.
Her head spins when she feels him take her weight and push it off center, lowering her onto the bed. She feels the mattress dip under their combined weight and the old box spring squeaks in protest. He keeps their position the same, his leg in between her parted ones, but now his forearms press into the bed and suspend him over her as they continue to kiss. His lips do not leave hers. His marks are deep and permanent, he sees no reason to mark her skin as well. Not in any way that people could see. His fingers trace her collar bone, brushing the protrusion before trailing across the dip in the center. She cannot quite contain the gasp, her mouth parting wider as his fingers trickle down her chest. They do no linger at her breasts, though many men have told her with their eye what they would do to her if they could touch them. They pause just above her naval before dipping down into the circle. His movements become torturously slow though when they touch her abdomen.
This is learned. Before his fingers would be quick and precise but he has figured out what makes her tremble and gasp and moan. She realizes her mistake at playing the dominant one when his fingers deviate from the pathway he's drawn on her body. They become snake like, moving one way and then the other but always going lower. His leg that is still between her thighs moves back, just a little. Just enough to make her shiver in anticipation and arch her back. Her movements do nothing to incite speed. The journey of his fingers is still slow, agonizingly slow and if she had let herself think for a moment there was anything human about him this reminds her that there is not.
His fingers finally reached their destination and with a slight tilt of his head his mouth was on hers again. With the same agonizing slowness he drew his fingers down and it was all she could do not to cry out. His touch was firm, a promise of things to come. Slowly his fingers drew upwards through her. Like a bow being pulled, she arched her back, her lips tearing from his as her head pressed against the mattress, her body aching to move with him. His fingers repeated the stroke, torturing her further. He does not try to capture her lips again as he tortures her. its not so different from the other times and ways he has tortured her. He takes control and she is helpless to do anything to fight him.
The world ceases to exist as she cries out. It could be a prayer, a curse, his name--she does not know. All she knows is the arch of her spine and the raw, dangerous pleasure that throws any semblance of control she has to the gutter.
She feels him move and knows he is about to disrobe further. It takes all she has to move, bending one jellied knee and pushing with her other heel, flipping them so he is on his back and she is on top of him. She opens her eyes and looks down at him. He stares at her, shock written on his features. She knows that if she had let him continue he would have completed the act but she stops him. He is confused. He does not understand. She finds she does not care. He holds himself still as she looks down at him, feeling strangely vulnerable and powerful as she straddles his hips. She feels him against her, knows that he has enjoyed what he did to her in a way that cannot be taught, only felt. The physical evidence is all there. Bending forward, she presses her hands to her chest and lets her hair fall across his shoulder and face. Closing her eyes she kisses him deep and long, feeling him respond to the familiar gesture.
And then she changes it.
Her lips leave his, pressing a chaste kiss to his bottom lip before leaving his mouth entirely. She kisses his throat and delights in the surprised arch of his neck. She trails down the side without the helmet, drawing his earlobe into her mouth briefly before continuing down. She does not know if he can feel the touch but he reacts all the same. His hard skin tastes like earth and cool and dark--like all the things she is not and thrill jolts her. This is everything she is not, he is everything she is not. Her lips follow the planes of his chest, teasingly stopping at the Four blazed on his chest and the small, barely visible scars that she does not know how they remain. She kisses down his chest to the ties of his hakama. She hears him inhale sharply and his entire body tenses but she pushes them down anyway. It is some instinct he has not to physically hurt her that saves her from being flipped but it is something else entirely that keeps him still as she pushes the damn things down as far as they will go.
As she takes him into her mouth and hears him gasp and feels him tremble she realizes that their positions have been reversed. He is now the captive and she is the one who holds the control. She is torturing him and even that thought is no enough to keep her from doing it. The power that rushes through her only worsens the heat that pulses through her. She tortures him slowly, with movements that are almost gentle. It is that gentleness, that reminder that she is human and he is not that throws him close to the edge. She can feel it as his hips move, impulsively, with the unfamiliar sensation, his control dangerously close to snapping. She is far crueler when she pulls back before granting him any sort of release. It is yet another thing they oppose each other with.
His capacity for cruelty has always been obvious.
Hers never has.
He's on her in an instant, even with the effects of what she has made him feel still obvious on his body. His hands trap her wrists by her head but she is having none of it and pushes herself up, pressing their chests together and kissing him hungrily. His fingers tighten before they slacken and it is all she needs to sit up fully on her knees, straddling him but it is his motion that brings them together. She remembers back when she had thought her first time with a man would be special. That he would love her and she would love him and there would be promises of marriage and love and things that went along with sex. But as he holds her while she trembles with the feeling of him buried inside her, she knows that that kind of life is not for her. Not anymore. He waits for her and it is all the kindness she will get from him. She has challenged him and he responds.
The first motion is enough to chase the breath from her lugs as only his arms around her keep her steady. He is warm but not as warm as a person would be. Not as hot as she feels. He sets the pace and she matches, the game turning into a complex dance. Now it is not about torturing each other, it is about the challenge and the challenge met. Her thoughts become jumbled and tangled, hardly worthy to be called thoughts at all as sounds escape from her lips that she does not recognize. The pressure that builds now is excruciating and delicious. It is the endgame and if she could have it her way, it would never end. But it does as the world explodes until nothing matters but the feeling that takes over every facet of her being.
The moment afterwards they hold each other more out of compulsion than any shared feeling of warmth. He moves first but she is the one who untangles her limbs. She gives no thought for modesty as she gets up. He's seen her nude before under far less pleasant circumstances. Sweat dampens her skin and the smell of sex clings to her. She feels warmer than she has in some time as she stands and walks the small distance to the window set into the wall. She presses her hand to the wall and looks out at the darkened world spread out before her, lit only by what has been made by man. She hears him slide on his cloths but there is no shame to his movements. He does not think they have done anything wrong, no more than she does. By the time he stands next to her he is perfectly composed and once more she is the one who is naked. Emotionally, physically--she has come to accept that she will always be naked in front of him. In a strange way she even finds it comforting.
"You should go," she says finally, breaking the silence, "he'll be back soon and if he finds you here--"
He is behind her before she can finish the sentence. Her body tenses at the unfamiliar action before it sags as her spine presses against his chest. She allows herself this weakness as her head rests against his shoulder, face turned towards his neck. He says nothing as one hand traces the curve of her shoulder, his other sliding around her waist and trapping her arm to her side. It is a possessive move, made more so when he presses his mouth to her bare shoulder. Given what they just did the heat that spikes through her when he bites her makes her head spin. Her fingers grab his hakama as her head reels.
"You are mine."
He draws back leaving the indent in her skin and the breeze at her back. She staggers back, her body twisting to find nothing but air there. They are the first words he has spoken all night but his voice is as cool and indifferent as she remembers. A few more halting steps take her to the bed as her knees buckle and drop her weight onto it. Her eyes find the window as she stares out at it.
Hours later her husband returns, smelling of sex. She wishes he smelled of liquor as well but he is sober when he fucks her and that makes it all the worse. She's in a nightgown, her hair still damp from the shower she took and there is a bandage over the bite mark on her shoulder. It is too late, or too early really, for him to take a shower and he must really think her a fool if he imagines she does not smell the perfume that stains his shirt. He changes and moves towards her in the darkness and the bed dips under his weight as he settles himself next to her. She holds herself still as he looks at her before something in her snaps. Her fingers streak up and rip the bandage away before her husband can pull back, before he can pretend not to see what is blazed on her shoulder. She turns to face him and finds an unexpected coil of delight as she sees the confusion in the bastard's eyes.
"I'm fucking Ulquiorra," she announces pushing herself up on her hand, "I'm his now," she elaborates and feels no shame at the admission, "go to sleep, we can take to a lawyer in the morning."
I have no excuse for the smexyness except that I couldn't keep writing my other work with all that damn sexual tension.
Hope you enjoyed!