Fanfiction Death Match, round 1

[laurie_bunter]

adam_epp just drew first blood.

Somewhere in the world, I hope this makes wicked_liz so extremely happy that she will sing LALALALALA for the rest of the weekend. Sweetie, without you cheering us both on to write on this topic, this would not have been possible. ♥

Hmm. At least we're both sure to have one reader...

title: Dance Me to the End of Love
pairing: Ichigo x Rukia
genre: drama and romance, sort of.
rating: M. If you're the squeamish sort, maybe you shouldn't read it at all.
spoilers/time line: It's post-everything.

summary: No one wants to die a virgin.

disclaimer: I don't own Bleach. After finishing this piece, maybe you'll be glad I don't.

fair warning: Let me be blunt. This story has character deaths and necrophilia. If you're not willing to read this with an open mind... then don't read it. It's very simple. I don't want any flames telling me that I scarred someone for life. I'm a responsible writer -- so be a responsible reader.

I know lots of people on my friends list have been waiting for my next IchiRuki fic but let's just say I take my cues from Kubo -- it may be gross but I actually have a point with this one! At least I think I do.

This is for Adam, constant critic and mordant muse: because we can never predict the outcome of what we inspire.

Dance Me to the End of Love
By Laurie Bunter

“Violate the dead.” - written on Ichigo’s shirtsleeve, chapter 3 (Headhittin’)

It is not the first time Ichigo held a dead woman in his arms.

His mother was a dead weight on his childhood self. He woke up from his faint to find her on top of him, shielding him with her body from the worst of the unseen foe. Awash in her blood, his mother was still strangely comforting.

Today, Rukia felt the same way to him.

Her body was lithe and tender; her eyes were open, as if the last thing she wanted to see in this world was his face.

Her body was still warm and inviting.

Ichigo shifted position and laid her gently down on the ground. Stupid Rukia, he thought, disgusted. Why did she have to make the final sacrifice for him? Didn’t he try to tell her once before that “Hey, we keep each other alive”? It had taken all of his adolescent guts to stammer out that confession, how could she have disregarded it by trying to keep only him alive? He never did get the words out right but… did Rukia honestly think this was repayment in kind?

“Stupid Rukia,” he said under his breath. And then, as if hearing an insult hurled in her direction would magically jolt her back into breathing, Ichigo said it again, and then much louder. “Stupid Rukia!”

The woman lying on the ground did not stir to kick him in the face. She lay there peacefully, like a princess in a fairy tale, waiting for her prince to awaken her with a kiss.

This life was no fairytale and Ichigo was no prince.

“Rukia,” he hiccuped, and then he was ashamed that he was hiccupping and that he could not stop it, the same way he could not stop the tears that spilled down his face.

Not even a tiny ember of her reiatsu remained.

Get a hold of yourself, Ichigo commanded. You are not weak. This is so uncool of you.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he stared into her blank eyes. With reverence, he used his index finger to close them. Then he kissed her eyelids awkwardly.

Without thinking too much about it, he lay down beside her warmth, as if his body alone could shelter her from the hostile elements surrounding them in this place of death.

They were in Hell, after all. The stale air was heavy with the smell of sulfur and corrosives. The ground beneath them was a quagmire of caked sludge, rust and jagged rock.

Hueco Mundo was a tea party, all crumpets and clotted cream, compared to this place of stench and suffering. At least the sands of Hueco Mundo had a sterile quality to it; it even had the virtue to sustain the lives of the tiniest Hollows. Hell had no virtues to boast of except the cheapest real estate prices in four planes of existence.

Before he was sent here, he saw artistic renditions of Hell, of course. While doing research for homework, Ichigo used to come across lots of weird things. One of his favorites was by this Dutch guy who depicted hell as full of beasts with human limbs and naked people strung up to musical instruments like lyres and flutes. A pig in a nun habit, a giant pair of ears holding a knife… he just found it sordid and funny. He had gotten a kick out of it.

No. The real Hell was not so pleasantly bizarre.

Didn’t a philosopher say that Hell was other people?

Ichigo’s thoughts drifted as he smoothed away Rukia’s mussed up hair. He stopped and considered pushing that unruly bang that always fell across her face. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to do it. She wouldn’t look like Rukia, he decided, if she didn’t have it.

Funny that he was more concerned about the proper arrangement of her hair than his own gutted and ruined body.

The wound in his side was bleeding profusely. His last opponent - the one Rukia had blocked - managed to puncture through most of his internal organs, including his stomach. Rukia had bought Ichigo a moment of time to defeat that evil bastard, but it was at such a high cost. It wasn’t worth it.

By instinct, Ichigo knew that he was going to die soon. His uniform was sticky from his free-flowing blood and there was no one left to heal him. Ichigo didn’t even have the mental concentration to summon Zangetsu and beg the old man to do what was futile. At this moment, all other aspects of his soul vanished, both the Hollow and the zanpakutou, as if they had sensed his failure and they didn’t want to be on the side of the losing team. Ichigo was going to die alone, with only his consciousness for company.

It was all just a matter of time.

Ichigo closed his eyes. He wanted to take a breather before deciding on his next move.

Oddly enough, the smell of blood brought at least one fond memory to his mind.

Ichigo remembered the week they managed to spend in each other’s presence, from the time they were rescued from Hueco Mundo to the blitzkrieg massacre of Soul Society that drove them to search for Aizen, who had opened the gates in Hell.

In that idyllic week of rest - never mind the time he spent being hectored by Yamamoto, Ichigo almost didn’t escape from dying from boredom - he had the good fortune to hold Rukia in his arms.

No, they didn’t dance. Soul Society wasn’t known for its stirring melodies, and besides Ichigo was the type of guy who insisted that he didn’t dance. Only Handicraft Club members and boys of dubious sexual orientation knew how to do that. Still, he had held Rukia in his arms, and he didn’t particularly care how it came about.

“What’s with the face?” Rukia had asked that cloudy afternoon.

“I’m bored,” Ichigo groaned. “Isn’t there anything to do here in Seireitei? Aside from watch Matsumoto get drunk and girls trying to take pictures of your brother.”

Rukia rolled her eyes. “Do you want to spar?”

Ichigo scoffed. “Why would I spar with you? You know I’m much stronger than you. Do you have a death wish or something?”

Wham.

Ichigo didn’t know what hit him, if it was the stoneware teacup Rukia was holding in her hand seconds after he opened his big mouth or if it was her fist making direct contact with his mouthful of teeth.

Ichigo got up, seeing red. His eyes narrowed.

“You cut me,” he said succinctly. Blood dripped from his lower lip.

“Do you want payback for that?” Rukia grinned.

By instinct, Ichigo reached for Zangetsu, only to discover his weapon wasn’t on his back. He had left the old man in the guesthouse. He was poised to flash-step out the window but he didn’t figure on Rukia’s quick thinking.

She didn’t need her zanpakutou to restrain him. Rukia jumped on his back and he tripped on the windowsill.

“Kidou number four-” Rukia began, but sputtered. Ichigo’s meaty palm went for her mouth.

She bit his fingers.

“Aw!” he withdrew his hand, cursing, and she smirked. They fell apart, bumping into furniture.

Rukia attempted her chant once more, but Ichigo took the offensive.

She spun around, dodging by the sofa, only to realize he had anticipated that move.

Her breath was knocked out as she was flipped on her back. The tatami mat didn’t do much to cushion her fall.

“That hurt,” Rukia groused, getting up and backing away. “Do that one more time, and I’m getting Shirayuki.”

“No weapons,” Ichigo hissed, and charged at her once more. I can beat her with just karate, he told himself. Rukia’s small, she’s not as fast as I am -

He slammed his head against the bookshelf before he finished that thought. It was a patented move, and he was angry. “Damn it, I told you not to watch The Chappy and Friends Wrestling Special!”

Twisting free, he retaliated by pinning Rukia to the ground with the weight of his entire body.

“I can watch whatever I want!” Stalemate. She had him in a partial headlock.

The door swung open.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” barked Kiyone, scandalized. “Can’t you fight in the open air? What did you do to Captain Ukitake’s office?”

Rukia glanced past the shoulder shoved in her face and went pale. “Ichigo, get off me!”

It was only then Ichigo remembered where they were. His eyes caught Rukia’s and he felt incredibly guilty.

Well, he did attempt to flash-step away from the paperwork first.

“I want you two to fix the damage, no excuses!” Kiyone said shrilly, surveying the damage. She shook her head: in less than twenty minutes since she left them alone, they had managed to scatter half of Captain Ukitake’s books and dislodge a window frame. This was not to mention the footprints on the sofa. “You’re very lucky the Captain is in a long meeting with Yama-ji. He just sent me over to fetch a report.”

Kiyone rifled through the desk drawer and found what she was looking for. She then slammed the door behind her.

“Ichigo,” Rukia intoned, her voice tense.

“What?”

“You can get off me now,” she said, turning her head away from his, trying to wriggle free from his grasp.

He almost drew back, blushing. It didn’t occur to him that Rukia was still pinned beneath him. For someone so aloof, it was surprising to find that some vital parts of her were softly feminine and squishy.

Then Ichigo realized, hey, maybe he didn’t want to move from here he was.

“I want payback for you cutting my lip,” he said.

Then, just like the way his mouth would run off with unintended insults, his body made a decision on its own. Ichigo lifted Rukia’s chin and kissed her.

The immediacy of the caress startled Rukia but she let herself be kissed. Spoils of war, she thought, as she was caught up in the moment. Who knows what he had planned to do before Kiyone interrupted them. String her up in spirit ribbons, perhaps?

Rukia could taste his blood on her tongue but she didn’t mind. She had done that trifling injury to him, and this was a novel way to soothe the pain away. She pulled his lower lip into her mouth, sucking.

She swirled her tongue around his, letting them dance. Each lick was a step forward; each swallow was a step back. Her mouth worked against him, and each dip, turn and slide brought their bodies closer to each other.

The instincts of pent-up youth had his fingers on the lacings of her uniform.

Normalcy then returned.

Her hands on his hard chest, Rukia shook her head and pushed him away. She struggled to sit up.

Ichigo was mystified. “Why not?” He demanded.

Another slap was inevitable but he caught her backhand before it hit his face. “Certain things must be accomplished before we can indulge in that,” Rukia said.

“Like what things?” What could be more important than taking off her clothes? Ichigo wasn’t sure where that dirty thought came from, but for the second time that day, he had taken leave of his senses.

“Like winning the Winter War, idiot,” she rebuked him.

“Oh.” The syllable fell flat and stupid from his lips.

There was nothing like a sense of higher purpose to douse all base desires.

Her eyes softened as they looked at Ichigo. Her lips unconsciously curled into a smile. Rukia felt compelled to tell him more than he needed to know. “Don’t worry. Maybe one day I will let you touch me like that. Maybe. And you won’t regret the wait.”

Rukia then covered up her embarrassment by proceeding to pick up the books on the floor and restoring them to the shelf.

Ichigo had to content himself with watching the fluidity of her motions as he lay back on the floor. He wondered when he would be lucky enough to touch her like that once more.

The memory faded from view as soon as Ichigo opened his eyes again. He recalled where he was but that didn’t seem to matter much anymore. Ichigo was more concerned that he was growing cold. Had all of his warmth transferred to Rukia?

I want to feel warm once more.

“No regrets, Rukia,” Ichigo murmured. “I can’t die with any regrets because I don’t want to turn Hollow ever again.”

After a lifetime of following his instincts without heeding the repercussions, he knew what he wanted to do.

I want to touch you and make you mine.

He needed to forget, for even a few moments, the trauma of seeing her reiatsu fade before his eyes and being absolutely powerless to do anything about it.

I want to dance with you until the end of love.

Without any second thoughts, Ichigo tore off the remainder of their uniforms. Her unblemished skin was creamy and her parted lips were still moist.

He started by kissing her like there was no tomorrow. Mainly because there wasn’t a tomorrow - at least not for them together - and he never wanted to be separated from Rukia ever again. There were too many words he had left unsaid.

Time and again he had to rely on his actions to get his point across - and so it would be for this first and last time.

Ever so slowly, with some effort on his part, Ichigo slipped inside her body.

The sensation was not as distasteful as people said it would be. Was it because he had died for this woman, that this act was one of desperate love and not perversion?

Just a few, rough strokes, as Ichigo knew she would not instinctively tighten around him. He tried to deceive himself… no, her cool touch was due to the influence of her zanpakutou; Rukia always radiated with heat and affection.

He suddenly hated himself for this self-indulgence. He had always wanted to give her pleasure, and man, did he just ruin their only time together! Rukia wasn’t going to get anything out of it.

Then Ichigo remembered her ethereal smile when they had kissed. That was her moment of surrender to him. The shadows of Hell were playing with his eyes; for a moment, as he moved over her prone body, he thought Rukia had smiled for real.

And that made him come.

He withdrew and held on to her tightly. Ichigo did not want to let her go. Without Rukia, there was nothing left to live for. He was like a man for whom the music had ended, but he was still caught up in her embrace.

Ichigo was a guy who swore he didn’t dance. There was no reason in the world he would dance alone. But now, he just did - and he was overwhelmed with grief and remorse.

Ichigo passed out.

His faint was not caused by unbearable pleasure, but more from the taxing effort of losing his virginity while critically injured. For a moment, Ichigo thought he was already dead. His breathing was shallow and made in short gasps. Perhaps he broke another rib in his sleep.

Strange, how he could think of sleeping peacefully in a place like this?

He did not know how long it was until the next interval.

It felt like a lifetime until a shadowy face simply materialized to hover over him.

He thought he heard his name. “Kurosaki Ichigo,” she said.

The voice was maternal and familiar.

Ichigo’s eyesight failed him. “Who is it? Mom? I can’t see you.”

“It is Captain Unohana,” she corrected him.

Whoever it was, she had knelt beside him on the ground. “I can still heal you, if you wish.”

He tried to wave her away from inspecting his eviscerated abdomen.

“You must trust me, Kurosaki,” she coaxed him.

“Let me go,” he whispered hoarsely. “I failed to protect her.”

Unohana withdrew her hands. Without a word, her released zanpakutou Miyazuki, floated down from the sky and returned to its original form.

The good captain tried to ignore that Ichigo’s hand was curled around Rukia’s exposed breast, and that his viscera had spilled all over her body.

Funny, Ichigo thought. The shadows overhead disappeared so quickly. “Please… just don’t let them get our bodies.” His eyes were glazed over with pain. “But leave us alone until I am done.”

Unohana turned away. Over the course of her long life, she had helped too many people die. She only gave them what they wished. Yet for some inexplicable reason this situation was different. This was not how it was suppose to end, Unohana thought.

Out of sight, Unohana stayed by their side; a solitary witness to a deathwatch, overwhelmed by the melancholy of the scene.

With his eyes shut once more, Ichigo could almost imagine the thumping of Rukia’s heart next to his. Her body had finally gone ice cold.

Drowsiness set in. He was conscious of nothing but the chill overtaking his limbs. He was losing all sensation. Then finally, he could hear nothing at all, not even the sound of Captain Unohana’s stifled weeping.

Unohana was crying for the young man who mistook her, at the moment of crisis, for his own dead mother. She was crying for all the evils in the world a healer was not meant to see.

Deep down, she knew she was also crying because she understood every single contradictory emotion that led up to his moment of weakness, and she was crushed between the guilt of condoning sexual aberration and withholding compassion from the unfulfilled.

Oh my, Unohana thought. I have no right to judge Kurosaki. Only Rukia has the right to do that.

And of course Rukia was not inclined towards confidences. She always kept her own secrets.

Unohana waited a full hour for Ichigo’s reiatsu to finally extinguish itself. It burned briefly with the intensity of an inferno until it flickered out, as if doused by an unseen deluge.

When he had passed away, she removed her haori and draped it softly over both Ichigo and Rukia, to provide them with some dignity.

It was only then Unohana contacted Soul Society - or what was left of Soul Society - to leave an important message.

“Kurosaki is gone,” was all she said. “They both crossed over. This mission was a failure.”

“Did you collect the samples I wanted?” The voice on the other end demanded. “I can re-create them both, you know. It’s not yet a failure. We can still win. I have considered the possibilities…”

“You have no right to suggest such a preposterous idea, Mayuri,” Unohana’s tone was calm but steely. “We had an agreement. That path is closed to us. Do not forget we are Shinigami. We do not violate the dead.”

The good captain took care to hide all the irony in her voice.

- finis -

Author’s Ramblings:

1. The title has two sources, one is my favorite Jack Vettriano painting and the other is a song by Leonard Cohen. I don’t know which came first. Does it matter? Here is Madeleine Peyroux's version of the song

2. The Dutch master in question is Hieronymus Bosch. The painting being described is the panel of Hell from “The Garden of Delights.”

3. This story was written to the adagio section of Piano Sonata No. 8 in C Minor, Op. 13, better known as Beethoven’s “Pathetique.” Very fitting piece of music, don’t you think? Chiaki-sempai would approve.

Trot out the grammar police! Concrete criticism is appreciated. If you're going to flame me about this, just be grammatical and amusing, okay? Thanks. ♥

Here is Adam's necrophilia fic: Posthumous Sex Affair. I haven't read it myself yet, all in the interests of fair play. I will now...