This is for an art trade I did with xshelaghx on ygallery. You can see the pic she did for my story 'Softest Touch' if you go to http://yaoi (dot) y-gallery (dot)net/view/531672/. It's so beautiful. xD
So I've been wanting to write a Ichigo/Ulquiorra or Ulquiorra/Ichigo forever, and this was the perfect motivation to finally DO it! I hope you all enjoy. It's a little different than my norm.
It happened every night. In the hour the night was darkest; when the moon was hidden behind a blanket of clouds, he would come to his window. Like a ghost, he would appear crouched on the sill outside, his soft black hair dancing across his pale face. His terrifying green eyes would flash and there was no refusing him.
Ichigo lay awake, as he had every night for the past few weeks, his eyes following the shadows that splashed across his ceiling. He wore nothing but his skin, having had too many t-shirts and too many pairs of boxers ruined when they were torn from his body. It didn't matter though, he was comfortable. The night was warm enough that even naked he felt beads of perspiration collecting at his collar. He dragged his fingers slowly through the wetness, spreading it down his chest, slicking his hot skin as he waited, his anticipation mounting.
He let his fingers roam lower, teasing the coarse hairs framing his arousal. He wrapped his hand around himself, rubbing a thumb over tightly stretched skin. Bending one of his long legs, he placed his free hand behind his head and stroked himself slowly. He closed his eyes and pictured pale thighs planted on each side of his waist.
Reiatsu flared and Ichigo's eyes snapped open. He was there, sitting on his heels, one slender arm braced above his head on the window frame. His gaze was locked on Ichigo's hand, moving so slowly over his reddened cock. His look was hungry, dangerous, like a predator stalking its prey from a hidden vantage point.
Ichigo's pulse quickened and his hand moved faster over his length. He liked the look in his visitor's eyes. He liked that he could bring life to that emotionless face.
"You have started without me." The usually detached voice was husky.
Ichigo opened his mouth, his breath quickening at the sound of the other's deep baritone. It slid over his body, caressing him like ghost fingers.
"Sorry," he whispered, not meaning it.
Sliding from the window sill, the other man shed his clothes. He deftly undid buttons and fastenings, making it seem as if his white garments were liquid, running over his lithe frame and spilling onto the floor in a puddle at his feet. He wasted no time, and moved to the bed, crawling over Ichigo's legs, settling himself with his knees on either side of the shinigami's waist.
Ichigo had lotion in his hand before the other had crawled over him. He slicked his cock quickly, knowing from experience that his visitor would not wait for him. If he hesitated, the other man would slam himself down on his erection and the sex would be too painful to bear.
But this time Ichigo was prepared, and he braced himself as cool hands rested on his chest. Thin, milky hips rose up over him, and he pressed the head of his cock into the waiting body. Ichigo rested his hands on those thighs he had been fantasizing about moments ago as he was completely engulfed. A sigh escaped his lips as the man above him began to move.
It was always slow at first, and always there were no words between them. There was no foreplay, no love, no emotional connection. Just a primal want; a need so intense they were rendered speechless as the pace of their fucking increased. Ichigo felt himself slipping as the other slammed his hips down on him over and over. He wondered for the thousandth time how this could be possible. This man was supposed to be dead; they had killed him months ago in Hueco Mundo. Yet, here he was, appearing before him every night to fulfill a desire that was so wrong, so taboo, that Ichigo was sure he had lost his soul. Soon, he would be a mindless hollow roaming the streets, fated to be cut down by one of his own comrades.
The shinigami could not tear his eyes away from the expanse of creamy skin over lithe muscle, flexing hard with every roll of the strong hips. He reached up, sliding his hands over the hairless stomach, fingers skimming over the hole at the other's collar. Ichigo ached to touch the inside, to violate the other man in this place with his fingertips as well as his cock was violating others.
Reaching higher, Ichigo took hold of a cold bone horn. He pulled the other man's face to his and took those frigid lips in a violent kiss. The shinigami opened his mouth and welcomed the reciprocation of his partner's tongue. He felt teeth on his lip and tasted blood as their speed became frantic.
Ichigo heard moaning and wasn't entirely sure who it was. The slap of skin against skin was loud and obscene as it echoed through the room. The shinigami felt orgasm coiling in his loins and reached out to pump the other's slender arousal against his thrusts. Black nails dug into his chest until blood blossomed, but Ichigo did not care. He had a mind only for staring into emerald green eyes, as pale lips parted and let out a shuddering breath.
Cum splashed across his stomach, and Ichigo felt himself becoming dizzy. The world fell away and everything was suddenly narrowed down to the feeling of his cock sliding in and out of that perfect body. Everything else ceased to exist as the pressure was released. He came hard, grunting once and gasping for air.
Ichigo's eyes squeezed closed and he felt the other collapse on his chest before he blacked out. When he came to, he was alone. He was sweaty, but clean, all traces of his earlier activities washed away as if they had never been there. It left Ichigo thinking, like it always did, if it had actually happened. Had he really come to him? Was his ghost really a ghost, or was he only dreaming?
Running his hands through his hair, Ichigo groaned in frustration. He rubbed at the back of his neck, and slid his hands down his chest.
Raising his head, he ran his palms over the flesh directly above his left nipple. Four, small red crescents stood out against the light honey of his skin. He fingered the cuts, wiping away dried blood and marveling at the dark bruising that had started to bloom across his chest.
He lay back, his hand never leaving the marks. He closed his eyes, his body relaxing; tension draining from his back and shoulders. He would be able to sleep now, his questions had been laid to rest.
Ghost or not, Ulquiorra had been there. He had marked him.
Ichigo was his.