Desire
by Mythdefied
November 2009
“The desire of the man is for
the woman, but the desire of the woman is for the desire of the man.”
- Madame de Stael
A sharp, gasping moan escaped her lips, a particularly deep thrust
making her thighs tremble. Orihime scrunched her eyes shut tighter,
fingers digging into muscled shoulders. Her cheek had begun to burn
from the continual scrape of the mask fragment against her skin, but
she shoved the feeling from her mind, ignored it. There were so many
other things to concentrate on: the heavy weight on her, the harsh
grunts in her ear, the way her breasts were crushed beneath a broad
chest, nipples rubbed taut by scarred skin, the hands on the insides of
her thighs, holding her legs wide apart, grip hard enough to bruise.
All thoughts of right and wrong, should or shouldn’t were long
ago banished; all that mattered now was the musky scent of sex in the
air, the taste of sweat on her tongue, the slick, wet sounds of flesh
slapping together, the feel of the man on top of her, inside her.
Every thrust was so hard, no hint of gentleness, nothing but rough,
driving need. Lust pursued and fulfilled and no real thought for her in
it. One more thing that didn’t matter. With eyes closed, her mind
raced and Orihime had everything she needed. The hands became slightly
smaller, fingers longer, the chest became smoother, the grunts turned
to gasps of her name, the hair brushing against her face was bright
orange. She slid her hands down his back, moaning as she rocked her
hips up to meet his, spreading her legs even wider though her muscles
protested. The burn faded quickly and she arched up into the deeper
thrusts, hands sliding further down to grasp at his hips, pulling,
urging him deeper, faster.
A snarled grunt and he was pounding into her, a frenzied pace that
stole the breath from her, left her open mouthed as she pushed up
against him frantically. She could feel it now, what she was reaching
for, the growing tension gathering where he pushed into her, her thighs
beginning to shake from it. She was gasping in air, soft cries starting
to spill from her lips, unable to hold them back any longer. Her
stomach was tensing, something coiling just below it, building and
building until he ground his hips down against hers, sending a wave of
pleasure crashing through her - and she shattered into countless pieces.
She couldn’t tell how long it was, shaking and moaning at first,
then drifting, riding the steadily decreasing waves as they rolled
through her. Her muscles lost tension all at once and her hands fell
away, dropping to the bed beside her as she went completely limp
beneath him. He was panting, his body stilled on top of hers, hands
just resting on her thighs now.
“Kurosaki-kun,” Orihime breathed out, voice heavy with
satisfaction. “Ichigo.”
And her eyes snapped open, realization hitting her as she quickly
covered her mouth with one hand, horrified at her mistake.
A sharp laugh in her ear made her wince. A shove of his arms and
Grimmjow was bracing himself over her, looking down at her with a wide
grin. For a moment he just stayed there, Orihime staring up at him with
wide, frightened eyes. Then he laughed again, longer this time as he
moved away and sat up. Orihime shivered at the sensation of his body
leaving hers, the feel of wetness trickling out of her.
“What’s wrong?” He stretched his arms above his head,
arched his back before standing up. “Think I’ll hit you
just because you said that asshole’s name?” He didn’t
stop grinning as he looked at her. He was completely unashamed in his
nakedness and despite what they’d done, how often they’d
done it, Orihime still felt her face redden as she looked away.
“Che. The fuck does it matter to me who you’re thinking
about? You could moan that bastard Aizen’s name for all I
care.”
The rustle of cloth meant he was dressing, but she still couldn’t
bring herself to look.
“Woman, the only thing I want from you is spread legs and a wet
pussy. Don’t give a shit what you’re thinking.”
Orihime blanched at his crudeness, but she didn’t make any other
move until she heard the door open, then close behind him.
She sat up slowly in deference to the soreness of her thighs. She
cleaned herself as best she could with the bed sheet, crumpling it and
pushing it aside before dressing herself. When the door opened again
before she was finished, she wasn’t surprised to see Ulquiorra
walk in.
He stood there in silence as he always did, watching as she sat there
and pulled her boots on, fixed her collar, untangled her hair. She
didn’t look at him, she couldn’t after times like this.
There was a ritual now, his silent observation as she pulled herself
together, so she was surprised when he broke it.
“Why?”
She was startled enough to actually look up. A glimpse of intense green
eyes and she quickly looked away, hands folding into her lap.
“You have feelings for Kurosaki Ichigo,” he stated when she
remained silent.
She waited for the guilt to come as she nodded, but it didn’t.
“Yet you allow Grimmjow the use of your body. Why?”
Orihime turned her gaze to the barred window, the sliver of moon in the
black sky. “I don’t know.” The lie flowed easily.
How could she explain the need for touch to a man who seemingly felt
nothing? The necessity, after so long of being alone, to be needed in
some way, to be desired? The knowledge that no matter how she felt, how
much she loved a man, that he would never feel the same way? What was
any of it to Ulquiorra? Something else about her to be questioned,
examined, pulled apart for his endless curiosity. She had so little of
herself left; she would keep this.
Silence fell; long moments passed. It was Ulquiorra who spoke. His
voice, devoid of emotion, not so much breaking the silence as parting
it momentarily.
“I will have food brought to you. And new sheets.” The door
closed softly behind him.
Orihime stayed there unmoving, silence settling around her once more as
she stared out the window.
The night remained endless; the moon hung before her, unchanging.
End
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