Anyway, I hope you enjoy it.
Her breath left her in a gasping rush as knees curled, parted, and her next breath was solely for the word, “More.”
Eyes, normally hidden behind a shield of glass, flickered over her scrunched face and a smile curved the corners of surprisingly soft mouth—lips still swollen from her earlier aggression.
Obedient fingers swirled against slick heat and her body coiled, tightened and then arched beneath him, more beautiful than any Quincy bow. “Still more?” he teasingly questioned, swallowing a groan when she clenched around his long digits.
“Uryu...” And in his name he heard: Oh, oh, yes, right there...
Dark hair tossed against damp grass, sticking to lashes and flushed cheeks as she quivered and moaned, and took all he gave, and still demanded more.
Beautiful, he thought with a mixture of awe and selfish satisfaction. Kurosaki may still have her friendship and her loyalty, but only he ever had her like this. Only he ever saw the woman beneath the black.
That privilege was never something he actively sought, and this was not something either of them had ever planned, or even fathomed, but as he shed the last of his clothes and she welcomed him inside silken heat with a sigh of nails along his shoulders, he really couldn't bring himself to regret it. Not after all this time.
Two years ago, when the war with Aizen had finally ended and the blood had stopped spilling, Orihime had confessed her feelings to a fully conscious Ichigo—and Ichigo, unable to crush her further than the events surrounding her capture had--decided to give a relationship with her a try.
Orihime had endured too much.
She had suffered for them.
She had bled for them.
She had wept for them.
She deserved to be happy.
And Ichigo's noble gesture had the desired effect on Inoue.
And he broke two hearts instead of one.
Not that he'd ever known, Ishida considered. It wasn't as though Kurosaki was the most astute individual when it came to reading emotion. How was he to know that Ishida had been harboring a blooming crush on the lovely Orihime? How was he to realize that he was invading unmarked territory? That was asking too much and thinking back, Ishida couldn't really blame him for not seeing what Ishida himself had kept carefully hidden.
But that didn't stop Ishida from feeling angry on Rukia's behalf.
Her devotion, dedication, and willingness to put her everything on the line for Kurosaki didn't simply speak of deeper emotions, it had shouted and screamed and flashed for all the world to see, if they so much as looked. Renji saw it, so did Chad. He, himself had witnessed it from the very first day he'd encountered them, and he had a feeling Orihime had been aware of it as well. Except Ichigo hadn't looked.
Not at anything other than the back of a bone white mask, and used it to hide more than his face.
Lonely. Dejected. Stubborn. Rukia had refused to acknowledge the sympathetic looks she received at school when they'd returned and it became apparent that Orihime and Ichigo had moved beyond 'friends'.
She never let on that anything was amiss, or that she was anything other than happy for her friends--and she was. That was her way. She wouldn't begrudge anyone happiness, even at the expense of her own. But Ishida noticed the changes in her, and how infrequently she had Ichigo help her with the Hollows.
So, it wasn't entirely by chance that they came across the same Hollow that fateful night eight months ago--he had been following her for weeks, in case she needed back up--but reflexes slowed by lack of sleep--thanks to college searching and extra hours at the hosptal--led to him being torn wide open and Rukia having to heal him...after she kicked Hollow ass.
He could still recall cool fingertips against his chest and the soothing hum of her riatsu covering him, sheltering him as it healed—far more than the physical.
In her night-sky eyes he had seen determination and pride...and a spark of something alive. Hunting Hollows was something she excelled at. She was skill and grace, deadly efficiency cloaked in icy indifference, but inside, deep in her core there was fire. And he wanted to feel that himself.
One thing led to another and before either could fathom who had started what, they were naked and writhing, grinding away pain and tears and betrayal with the slick slide of skin on skin.
She had tasted of cotton candy and felt like heaven.
She called him by name and never once closed her eyes.
Never once pretending.
He fell a little bit in love with her for that.
There was no illusions between them. No empty words or broken, unspoken promises.
There was only here and now and touch and feel. Ache and pleasure. Solace in skin.
And it was more than enough for both of them.
No, he thought, looking back he couldn't have predicted this outcome. But he wouldn't change it.