Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach.
She should have killed it while she had the chance. She should have extinguished it - and Ichigo along with it - before ever being forced into such a deal; she had no guarantee that this all wasn't just some sick game, and that Ichigo wasn't already dead, the hollow in front of her the only being left within what had once been the Kurosaki boy's soul form.
She'd agreed, because his life hung in the balance. She'd agreed, because there was no alternative; she'd shattered whatever tenuous sway she'd held over the monster whose hand, wrapped around her throat, clenched convulsively before relaxing, allowing her to speak, wrong eyes traversing her body, spread out before it.
Rukia choked back disgust, all pity gone.
"Let Ichigo go free," she said, but rage coloured her voice, and it cocked its head and pinched her throat with its fingers.
"Shinigami, when I said beg, I meant beg," it said, and the mask still obscured everything except for those burning, inverse eyes. "Because if your apology ain't up to snuff, I'm not gonna give you any second chances; I'll kill him no matter what you say, then. Start again, shinigami. Make me believe you."
Despair rushed through Rukia, but she braced herself, her hands on its knees, pushing herself up towards it; its arm relaxed, allowing her to push against its hand until she was sitting upright in thespace of its crossed legs. She would not fail at this. She would not be the cause of Ichigo's death. She had lived through that once: she knew that once more would break her.
She hesitated; it stared down at her, mask impassive, eyes expectant. She bowed her head, let her hair fall forward over her face.
"I'm sorry," she began, and her voice was a whisper. "Please...please let Ichigo live, I'm begging you -" she grasped the front of its hakama in supplication, and bent over still more; this close to it, the heat of its body against hers, the smell of Ichigo all around her, its dark reiatsu surrounding her in a jagged caress, warm and sickly sweet like gouts of blood...
(there had been another night, when it had been dark, and she had been close - so close - to a hollow in a man's body; when his familiar presence had also bled defilement, whose life had also been in her hands, his warmth mingling with hers and steaming in the rain as his blood ran down her sword and over her hands and out of them on to the ground)
...it was intimate, it was wrong, and the comfort of being in such close proximity to Ichigo warred and melded with the danger and sick thrill of being held close by a hollow.
Shame coloured her cheeks, tears of rage and despair spilled from her eyes as she forced the words out. "You - please don't kill him, please... I could not bear it if he died, because of me..." Like Kaien-dono... her breath hitched, but she went on determinedly. "I'd do anything -" (to have him back) - "please, don't kill him -" (not again) - "he deserves to live -" (both of them) - "please...please..." (I can't live through this again).
Cruel fingers grasped her hair; her head was wrenched back, her tearstained face lifted and exposed to the hollow's gaze. Rukia sucked her breath in sharply from the pain, but glared defiantly at it nonetheless, shivers going down her spine from where its palm held the back of her head. It leaned down a little, and took its hand away from her throat, going instead to its own, masked face.
"Rukia-chan..." it said, and then, in one swift movement, shoved its mask up to rest sideways on its head, exposing an unnaturally wide grin, teeth bared in horrible mockery.
"You'd do anything, eh?"
Dread rushed through Rukia like a tidal wave; it saw her eyes widen with realization and horror.
"You said it, not me." It shrugged, still smiling wickedly.
"That's not part of the deal, hollow!" Rukia spat, eyes narrowing to belie the panic moving through her.
"It is now," it sniggered, the sound a corrupted staccato. "Besides, there's nothing you can do about it. Oh, don't worry," it said, garbled voice filled with malicious glee,"I won't ask too much of you. Just a kiss."
"You -" Rukia's voice was constricted with loathing; she cut herself off, however, not trusting it to not interpret her words as a threat and consequently to kill Ichigo. Yet somehow, Rukia had felt the focus shift, almost imperceptibly; sherealized that this was no longer about Ichigo at all - and began to wonder if it ever had been.
"Don't act all self-righteous," it was smirking. "You liked it last night, didn't you?"
Rukia clenched her teeth, and tried not to pay attention to where her thighs were touching its sides, heat radiating through the cloth of her robes.
"Or would you rather continue to beg?" It grinned smugly. "Either way, I get what I want. You could go back to grovelling; it's nearly as satisfying."
"You're sick," Rukia ground out.
"I know what I want," it replied, and ran the backs of its fingers over her cheek. Rukia shuddered at the caress.
It let go of her hair; she bowed her head once again, hair falling to curtain her face, providing a mask for furious thought.
She had to do something. She had to stall until she could think of something. She had to - she had to - but there was nothing she could think of that she hadn't already run over in her mind. She couldn't destroy it. She couldn't do to Ichigo what she had done to Kaien; she was not brave enough, not courageous enough, not selfless enough to make that choice. And so she could do it no harm; Rukia felt the iron bars of the cage closing in around her, small and scared and alone as she was.
Nobody would be coming to save her. Her saviour sat before her, watching her expectantly with golden eyes. There was no way out, no deus ex machina, not this time.
Words failed her, and so it was that Rukia didn't protest when it lifted her chin with those long, ice-cold fingers, didn't speak when it looked down at her out of Ichigo's face, didn't struggle when it bent down to place its lips over hers, didn't refuse when it ran its tongue over the seam of her lips, didn't move when it scooped her up lightly to seat her on itself. So gentle, so gentle...a mockery of concern, a farce with her at centre stage, a hideous joke that lanced through her with hot shame. It kissed its way along her jawline, pausing by her ear, hot breath causing her to shudder in response.
"You know," it said, and its voice was a breathy murmur, "I like you far better when you fight me. Shinigami. You're very pretty when you cry, but you're so much more beautiful when you're angry."
Rukia remained mute. It drew back to regard her with narrowed eyes. "Kiss me back, shinigami. I won't go out with my last memory being that of kissing a fucking gigai."
Rukia gasped sharply as its hands fisted suddenly, brutally in her hair; its mouth seared over her own, tongue shoving its way between her lips as it pulled her to it, lifting her up to slam her pelvis into its own. She yelled into its mouth, she scored its chest with her nails, she reached fruitlessly for Shirayuki as it ground her against itself, cloth rubbing uncomfortably, teeth clashing brutally, the coppery taste of blood filling her mouth. Yet the violence and obscenity of the situation flooded Rukia with almost a sense of relief: this she could push back against, she could fight fire with fire, and it served to lessen the knot of nausea that its first, gentle kisses had driven deep into her stomach.
Rukia's hands clawed their ways up to its head; she twisted her fingers into the thickness of the spiky, orange hair, pulling it closer, and suddenly realized that she was reciprocating. The hollow had relaxed its grip on her a while earlier; it was she who was pushing against it, lips moving insistently, and she waited for the horror, the outrage, the anger to flood her, but it didn't come. In that moment, Rukia felt acutely the warmth of Ichigo's skin against the palms of her hands, the feeling of another's body beneath her own; in that moment, the hollow shifted under her, pressing itself up to her in a gesture that was both open and hungry, and Rukia felt.
His lips against hers were warm, strong; his frame trembled underneath hers, each breath causing his chest to rise and fall against her own; his hands caressed her hair, each movement deft and reassuring, and she moved her own finger slightly, nimbly, feathering through his hair, marvelling at how soft it was. A low groan issued from his throat, filling her with an unnameable desire at the same moment thather hand, travelling through his hair, came up against the cool, smooth edge of the hollow mask.
Reality snapped back into place, and Rukia jerked back: black and yellow eyes gazed down at her. It wasn't Ichigo. It wasn't even human...and yet she had...
It watched her, eyes smouldering, and she let the thought trail off into nothingness. Some things were best banished to the farthest reaches of memory. It watched her, not saying anything, and everything came full circle.
"Leave now," Rukia whispered. It remained silent, and Rukia sensed the unspoken question in its stare. "Leave," she said again, voice louder but trembling. "You got what you wanted. I understand."
"Silly Rukia-chan," its voice was light and derisive, its fingers nimble and quick as it plucked the mask from the side of its head and folded her own hands around the polished bone. "You can't possibly."
It blinked, and Ichigo looked out and then down, to where their hands met over the mask of a hollow.
A/N: This took forevarz to finish. I'm serious, and still not happy with how it turned out. Also, I really should be doing work on at least one of my three projects due next week, but hey, at least there's some closure here. Hope you all enjoyed it; let me know what you think!