[fic post] Daydreams
Title: Daydreams
Rating: R
Genre: Angst/Downer
Pairings or Characters: Ulquiorra/Orihime
Warnings: masturbation
Word Count: 489
Summary: The dust is still on her skin.
Author Notes: Why, hello there random UlquiHime plot bunny, how nice of you to take over my brain this afternoon. I will forever suck at titles /WHINES. Um. I wouldn't recommend reading this if you're depressed, because it's a downer (not that that's a surprise when it's UlquiHime, but still).
Daydreams
The dust is still on her skin.
No matter how many time she washes or how hard she scrubs, it stays. The remains of someone she shouldn't care about at all, etched into her so deep she can't escape.
She still goes to school, still meets with friends, and sees Kurosaki-kun and the pitying smile he gives her when their eyes meet. (She is his failure, and she sees it in his face whenever he looks at her. He saved her, but at the cost of becoming something wrong.) No one bothers her beyond exchanging pleasantries most days, leaving her and Tatsuki to eat their lunch in silence, and she walks back to her cold, empty home alone.
She doesn't leave the house except for classes. Tatsuki brings her groceries every weekend, and she keeps her promise to eat the food she's given.
At home, she doesn't do much. She lays in bed most of the time, staring up at the ceiling. She used to cry, too, quiet and calm, but she's pretty sure she's cried every last drop out of her because she can't anymore. She sees him in front of her most days, right before he turned to ash and buried himself inside her skin.
On the days she hears his voice -- "Do I frighten you, woman?" -- the loneliness and misery overwhelms her, and the memory drives her hands between her thighs.
He never touched her. Not once. But she did slap him, and through that, she knows the fingers tugging her underwear down are too warm to belong to him. His skin was cold beneath her palm, as if he were dead.
The sad irony of it brings a lump to her throat, but there are no more tears to shed.
Her hands are too small to be mistaken for his, but she squeezes her eyes shut and tries to imagine what it would be like if he was touching her now. Would he be gentle? Would he be rough? His words were never kind, but he never hurt her, either. Maybe his words would have been cruel while his touches were soft, she wonders. Her fingers press inside her where no one else has touched as she pictures him above her, calling her names and telling her it's hopeless while stroking her hair and kissing her with cold lips.
She moves her hands faster the closer she gets, eyes still closed with the image of him above her, thrusting inside her, painted beneath her eyelids. When she comes, she calls his name, and for the first time in ages her eyes feel wet and her vision blurs.
Even with the power to turn back time, she'll never be able to bring him back. She'll never know how he would touch her, what he would say to her, if he would kiss her.
She's learned to settle for the dust still on her skin.
Rating: R
Genre: Angst/Downer
Pairings or Characters: Ulquiorra/Orihime
Warnings: masturbation
Word Count: 489
Summary: The dust is still on her skin.
Author Notes: Why, hello there random UlquiHime plot bunny, how nice of you to take over my brain this afternoon. I will forever suck at titles /WHINES. Um. I wouldn't recommend reading this if you're depressed, because it's a downer (not that that's a surprise when it's UlquiHime, but still).
Daydreams
The dust is still on her skin.
No matter how many time she washes or how hard she scrubs, it stays. The remains of someone she shouldn't care about at all, etched into her so deep she can't escape.
She still goes to school, still meets with friends, and sees Kurosaki-kun and the pitying smile he gives her when their eyes meet. (She is his failure, and she sees it in his face whenever he looks at her. He saved her, but at the cost of becoming something wrong.) No one bothers her beyond exchanging pleasantries most days, leaving her and Tatsuki to eat their lunch in silence, and she walks back to her cold, empty home alone.
She doesn't leave the house except for classes. Tatsuki brings her groceries every weekend, and she keeps her promise to eat the food she's given.
At home, she doesn't do much. She lays in bed most of the time, staring up at the ceiling. She used to cry, too, quiet and calm, but she's pretty sure she's cried every last drop out of her because she can't anymore. She sees him in front of her most days, right before he turned to ash and buried himself inside her skin.
On the days she hears his voice -- "Do I frighten you, woman?" -- the loneliness and misery overwhelms her, and the memory drives her hands between her thighs.
He never touched her. Not once. But she did slap him, and through that, she knows the fingers tugging her underwear down are too warm to belong to him. His skin was cold beneath her palm, as if he were dead.
The sad irony of it brings a lump to her throat, but there are no more tears to shed.
Her hands are too small to be mistaken for his, but she squeezes her eyes shut and tries to imagine what it would be like if he was touching her now. Would he be gentle? Would he be rough? His words were never kind, but he never hurt her, either. Maybe his words would have been cruel while his touches were soft, she wonders. Her fingers press inside her where no one else has touched as she pictures him above her, calling her names and telling her it's hopeless while stroking her hair and kissing her with cold lips.
She moves her hands faster the closer she gets, eyes still closed with the image of him above her, thrusting inside her, painted beneath her eyelids. When she comes, she calls his name, and for the first time in ages her eyes feel wet and her vision blurs.
Even with the power to turn back time, she'll never be able to bring him back. She'll never know how he would touch her, what he would say to her, if he would kiss her.
She's learned to settle for the dust still on her skin.