above the artificial sky of las noches, a singular reiatsu surges.

no longer confined by the limitations of his humanoid body, ulquiorra returns to his primitive hollow form. his resurrección’s second release is beyond daunting. his wingspan measures at least twice his height when fully outstretched, and two elongated horns protrude from each side of his head like fractured bones splintering through his skull. his chest is obliterated by his hollow hole: an eerie cavity revealing the glowing crescent moon behind him—a silver scratch clawed into the dark sky.

“you aren’t afraid,” he notes, eyes burning into you with an intense curiosity. the whites of them are now a piercing emerald green, encasing his yellow irises and undilated pupils.

you shake your head. instead of fleeing, you take a step towards him. your heart flutters in your chest, but not from fear. thrill and desire mingle in your veins to create a devastating rush of adrenaline. impulsively, you reach out to touch his marble skin. he flinches at the contact, yet doesn’t flinch away.

“you’re aroused,” he states. the observation isn’t accusatory or mocking. “i can sense it.”

regarding you with mild interest, ulquiorra’s tail lashes from side to side, until it darts out and coils around your waist, pulling you as close as possible to him without your bodies pressing together. the end of the appendage is adorned with a plume of long, delicate feathers, which accidentally brush and tickle the sensitive spot on your neck. you briefly writhe in his clutches before accustoming to the peculiar sensation. subconsciously, your thighs squeeze together at the pressure around your middle.

your arm extends hesitantly so your fingers can caress the leathery skin of his wings. they bristle and flap faintly under your ministrations, and his eyebrows pinch together, as if he’s restraining himself. then, you drag your palms up his lean abdomen. skimming across his wiry frame, your movements eventually halt just shy of his hollow hole. he sucks in a sharp breath as you carefully map out the rim of the gaping circle in place of his heart. something stirs between his legs—a cock which was previously flaccid and hidden beneath the thick, black fur covering his lower body. a small smile curves your lips.

narrowing his eyes, he enquires, “does this amuse you?”

“i wouldn’t say this amuses me,” you counter. “i just think it’s interesting that you’re turned on. this is a feeling you can’t deny.”

refusing to dignify you with a response, ulquiorra decides he can now explore you as you had done to him. his claws make quick work of your white robes, destroying the material into strips that flutter to the ground around your feet. running the tip of his tail across your nipples and seemingly drinking in the shocked whimper that escapes you, his nail tears at your soaked panties, tugging until they no longer cover you and instead dangle from his finger. he brings them to his nose and curiously sniffs the damp patch of your arousal—the gusset entirely see-through.

“why are you so…wet?” he demands to know, discarding the shredded fabric.

one of his long nails traces the stiffened peak of your nipple. “fuck,” you whimper, “because you’re touching me, ulquiorra!”

“i wasn’t touching you earlier, yet—”

you interrupt him, avoiding his unreadable gaze. “well…no, you weren’t,” you say, heat rising to your cheeks, “but i was thinking about it.” the end of your admission is a faint, humiliated whisper, but your close proximity allows him to pick up the mumbled words.

awkwardly shifting in his grasp, you notice his pupils swallow his irises in black as his slim, lengthy cock slots between your thighs. it glides easily between the slippery folds of your pussy and you let out a quiet gasp. with each experimental thrust, he starts to chase that blissful sensation. the head of his cock catches your clit at every pass through your heat, causing you to moan and wriggle against the binds of his tail.

“don’t stop, ulquiorra, please,” you breathe desperately in his ear.

he frowns. “why would i stop?”

his eyes are locked onto the sight between your bodies: he alone bearing witness to your arousal coating his cock in a wet, glossy sheen. he doesn’t register your grip on his arms tightening. however, after you cry his name in a way he finds imperative to hear again, he feels your release gush onto him and drip down your thighs. his tail curls firmer around you for support as the pleasure from your orgasm subsides.

reluctantly, ulquiorra removes himself from the warmth between your legs. his cock slaps against his stomach, abnormally long with a dark flush at the tip. with your gaze entranced on his length, he takes the time to scrutinise you without your knowledge: your lashes damp with unshed tears; your pulse hammering; your lips slightly parted.

why does he want to make you feel that way again?

“ulquiorra?” you question his silence, your stare flickering to his face.

“when i’m inside you,” he pauses, “will you say my name the way you did earlier?”

you nod, and that’s the only confirmation he needs to impale you on his unnatural length.

as he sinks inside, your heat engulfs him. he lifts you higher and you wrap your legs around his hips for stability. he grunts softly and drives himself deeper, drawing a whimper of his name from your lips. slowly, your hands slide up his arms, past his jaw, and seize the twisted horns adorning his head. using them as leverage, you grind onto his cock. the sound of skin slapping against skin echoes in his ears as he watches your face twist with the satisfaction of knowing he is the cause for your ruined state.

you press your forehead against his. all he can smell is your sweat, your arousal—the irresistible scent of you. “finish inside me, ulquiorra,” you beg the fourth espada, emphasising his name with an unintentional cry.

something raw and primal assumes control over ulquiorra. he manages to maintain some restraint—he doesn’t want to break such a fascinating specimen—but his pace turns brutal. each movement is erratic and punctuated with a low growl as he focuses on your instructions. signalling your impending orgasm, your walls clamp around him like a vice, trying to wring out his own release. any strength you had previously fades. your grasp loosens from his horns and you slump against his shoulder, only able to communicate in incoherent whines and pleas. you bounce helplessly with every aggressive cant of his hips—the way his tip probes your cervix never failing to make your eyes roll into the back of your head.

he barely recognises who he has become as he loses himself in the sensation: the incoherent whimpers you emit against the shell of his ear completely preventing any other thought. his mind is only able to concentrate on how snugly he fits inside you, and how he needs to finish inside—needs to make you completely and utterly his.

ulquiorra doesn’t understand why he feels so human inside of you, but he wants to learn.

moonlight spills through the parted shoji doors, bathing the tatami mats in it’s weak silver light. soft moans—more reminiscent of sighs—startle the repose of your shared private quarters: a sensual cry for relief in the dark. naturally attentive to your every need, jūshirō stirs from sleep before you, a swathe of fresh, white sheets wrapped around his form to fend off the night’s chill. he admires your scrunched up face and the uninhibited noises that escape your mouth as your dream overwhelms you.

it’s not long until you slowly rouse. the indicative stickiness of your unconscious thoughts lies between your thighs, but in your groggy state this is disregarded in favour of chasing the pleasure that’s ebbing away. your hips cant into the futon, the motion causing a slight creak beneath the weight of your want. brows knitted, lips parted, a small whine of irritation catches in your throat. this is not enough. you’re not even properly awake and yet your body knows what it wants—what it needs. him.

with a smitten smile on his face, jūshirō watches the scene unfold—responding to your unaware display by palming his cock. you wriggle and call out his name in a voice raspy with sleep and arousal. he strokes your hair, tucking the sweat-plastered strands behind your ear. you breathe out a content gasp, his touch igniting the heat inside you. you grind against the futon with even more intensity.

“are you dreaming of me, sweetheart?”

despite his voice barely rising above a murmur, it interrupts your trance. your eyes open wide to meet his own: both of your pupils’ dilated—a reflection of each other’s desire. embarrassment sinks in and uncomfortably warms your cheeks, so you divert your gaze from his. a pang of guilt twists your insides at the diligence of the man beside you: a sick man who still caters to your every whim, disrupting his own chance at a needed rest just to ensure you’re satiated.

he grips your chin carefully, as if the wrong action might shatter you like glass. he refuses to allow you to entertain that inkling of guilt. “no need to be shy,” he whispers. “it’s just me. just us.”

now all too conscious of the slick seeping from your sex, you nod in response to his earlier query, abashed. his smile broadens at this silent admission and he pulls the sheets away from your body. your sleep yukata is hiked around your hips from all your squirming, exposing the molten mess between your legs. effortlessly, he pulls you onto his lap, your arousal staining the fabric of his own sleepwear. still partially exhausted, he’s only semi-erect—but his bulge hardens as it becomes the new target of your delirious grinding. his arms encircle your waist, drawing you into his chest so you’re flush against each other, hearts racing as one.

hips increasing their pace, you whine into the crook of his neck. “‘hirō—gonna cum already…m’sorry.”

“that’s okay. it feels nice, doesn’t it?” he presses a kiss to your forehead. “you’re doing so well. cum just like this for me.”

jūshirō’s tender praise induces your first orgasm of the night. wetness blooms between the barrier of your clothes, fabric clinging to your crotch like a second skin. as the euphoria subsides, your hips roll mindlessly against him for a while longer, then still. panting slightly, you nuzzle deeper into his neck, inhaling his scent to anchor your thoughts to him.

with your body relaxed against his, he carefully rolls on top of you, securing you into position against the futon. after untying the knot around your waist, he peels the yukata away from your skin, breath shuddering as the material parts to reveal your nude form. he drinks you in with an almost pained, hungry expression—what has he done to deserve this?—but you notice the torment he tries to disguise, and reassure him by capturing his lips in a brief yet loving kiss.

reverently, he pulls away, fingers rubbing your jaw. you blink up at him as he says, “you look so beautiful.”

you giggle appreciatively at his compliment, stare fixated on him as he trails kisses down the valley of your breasts—white hair cascading past his shoulders and tickling your skin as his teeth graze the sensitive buds of your nipples before he travels lower. the light residue of his saliva leaves a path all the way down to your mound, which he gives an affectionate kiss.

the adoration in his green eyes never wavering, jūshirō supports himself on his elbows, his fond smile transforming into one of awe at the view of your soaked pussy. “hm…you’re so worked up,” he says playfully, casting you a mischievous grin. “who made you feel this way?”

to emphasise his words, he runs the pad of his thumb over your clit, making your hips jerk. he presses his palm flat against your abdomen, pinning you in place. the adoration in his enlarged pupils never wavers. your eyes squint shut as he collects your release on his tongue, deftly tracing your puffy folds with maddening precision, then spreading them apart with his fingers to catch a glimpse of your pulsing entrance.

trembling, you muffle your whimper into the pillow beside you. “you, jūshirō,” you keen. “please stop teasing me…”

jūshirō instantly takes pity on you. inserting a finger into your hole, his eyes darken at the way your own roll into the back of your head from the pleasure. “i’m going to take care of you,” he promises. “there’s nothing you need to do. just be a good girl for me and i’ll give your body what it needs.”

“do ya know what lieutenant kira said this morning?”

whirling around in surprise, you nearly drop the entire stack of papers bundled in your arms on the floor instead of the aforementioned lieutenant’s desk. gin emerges from a secluded corner by the door, stepping out of the shadows to shut it with a faint click. his perpetual smile widens at your startled reaction.

“he said ya wanna transfer to a different division—already put in a request.” he pulls a document from his haori and waves it in your direction, smirking when you notice your handwriting scrawled across the page.

his lips curve impossibly further as you remain silent, placing the paperwork on the desk and organising it into a neat pile to distract yourself from his unsettling presence. unease brews in your gut: every primal instinct screams at you to flee, but his venom has seeped into your veins, rendering you immobile.

gin crosses the threshold in a few long strides, slithering into your personal space without a care for boundaries. irritated, you huff as he intently watches you organise the pile, enjoying how your entire body tenses due to his proximity. in one swift manoeuvre, he pins you against the desk with his lithe frame.

you can practically hear the mocking grin in his voice as he says: “it’s rude to ignore yer captain.” he presses his chest into your back firmly, clearly enjoying how he’s obtained the upper hand before you’ve even got a word in.

“i don’t like you,” you finally admit with a scowl. “i don’t trust you, either.”

“s’that so?” he raises an eyebrow at your honesty. “that hurts my feelings, ya know? but—” his fingers grasp your jaw, tilting your head back until you meet his lidded gaze, “—right now, i’m still yer captain. i think ya oughtta apologise, hm?”

despite the mocking lilt in his tone, it’s not a suggestion: it’s an order.

tension hangs in the air, slowly heating with each breath between you. your tongue is heavy with defiance: unwilling to concede to a man with such disconcerting tendencies. trapped between his body and the smooth wood only confirms your distrust isn’t unwarranted.

“my, my…ain’t ya rude today?” gin’s laugh is humourless. his timbre becomes more blatantly sinister when he unwinds himself from you and instructs: “get on yer knees.”

you lower yourself to the ground of your own volition: impatient to suffer the consequences of slighting your captain so you can remove yourself from this uncomfortable situation. with bated breath, you gulp as his hand grasps the hilt of his zanpakutō.

the blade—shorter than the average shinigami’s—reflects the sunlight filtering through the window. when it’s fully withdrawn, the tip of the sword prods your jugular vein. pressed against your throat, he drags the pointed metal down towards your chest, admiring the way the blood trickles from your sliced skin to pool on your chest and paint the neckline of your shihakushō red.

gin tuts. “yer so dirty.” you’re uncertain if he’s talking to you or shinsō. however, he definitely addresses you next. “yer gonna lick it clean, then thank me for it.”

resistance waning, your tongue darts out to run itself along the edge of the steel. the tang of iron accumulates on your taste buds, but you lap it up obediently nonetheless. you wonder what other horrors leave an invisible stain on the silver. hollows, unquestionably—yet perhaps that alone isn’t enough to satiate him? perhaps shinsō’s thirst has been quenched with the lives of innocents, or—your breath catches—even fellow shinigami?

cautiously, you retract from the hypnotic glint of his zanpakutō, licking the remnants of blood from your lips. “thank you, captain ichimaru,” you murmur.

gin ruffles your hair approvingly. “knew ya could be good for me. just needed a little persuading, hm?”

the praise ignites a fire you didn’t know was sparking in your belly. it occurs to you then that you like this: like parting your lips to receive his zanpakutō in your mouth—like the taste of your own blood and the knowledge he could obtain more with just the slightest flick of his wrist.

he isn’t oblivious to the tell-tale squeeze of your thighs attempting to quell the heat burning within you. he gasps in faux horror, not bothering to disguise his glee. “oh, yer are a naughty girl.” he pats the wood beside your head. “sit.”

although you oblige, a prickling shame heats your cheeks. “this is lieutenant kira’s desk,” you state the obvious. “what if he comes back?”

“then he’ll have a real nice view of what i’m gonna do to ya,” he purrs.

slipping into the gap between your legs, gin pushes them further apart. with your shihakushō bundled at your hips, he has the perfect perspective of your drenched panties. he hums appreciatively as he tugs them to the side, staring at the arousal drooling from your pussy. absently, he smears your wetness on the desk: further disrespect to the overworked lieutenant kira. he forces him into performing all administrative tasks, and then takes advantage of his absence by having his way with you on his workspace.

“please, captain,” you whine, irritated that you’re only being subjected to his stare instead of his touch.

he ignores your plea, inspecting your exposed sex with a leer. he turns shinsō so the blade points at himself: his hand a tight fist resting against the tsuba. eyes narrowing further, he notches the hilt of his sword against your dripping entrance. you attempt to wriggle away, but his free hand finds itself at your throat with a punishing grip.

“be a good little sheath for me, hm?” is what gin sneers at you before plunging the handle into your tight heat.

you choke out a gasp as the foreign object enters you. clamping your eyes shut whilst humiliation courses through you, you splutter out the syllables of his rank. the punishment of being debased by the hilt of his zanpakutō instead of his cock—untouched and protruding from beneath his shinigami robes—only fuels the shame coiling inside you.

the rough material wound around the handle delivers a strange friction to your fluttering walls. conflicted, your shaking body can’t decide if the burn is pleasurable or painful: regardless, you know you would beg him to keep going if he stopped. it’s so deep and snug inside you. every thrust into your sweet spot has you clawing at his wrist, occasionally slicing your palm or fingers on the blade. in your fervour, you don’t notice the blood flowing from your broken skin.

“yer making such a mess.” gin releases his hold on your throat, but his fingers still dig into the sensitive skin there. “if ya’d left, it would’ve been a crying shame, ‘cause i think shinsō really likes ya.” he twists the hilt and the change in angle has you sobbing something unintelligible, your release spraying onto the blade itself—as well as the desk and his hand.

chuckling, he removes the handle from your twitching hole. the sticky webs of your arousal snap as he twirls his zanpakutō, returning it to a regular position in his grasp. he seems unfazed by the wet fabric. “ain’t ya cute when ya cum?” he teases. warmth floods your cheeks.

another moan tumbles from your lips when he spreads your folds with his middle and forefinger, another wave of fluids seeping from you. “thought ya didn’t like me,” he mocks with a small cackle. “bet yer used to wish ya could run that sword of yers through me…but it looks like i’m gonna beat ya to it.”

before his words can really sink in, something cold and sharp presses against your flesh.

with a panicked shriek, you squirm away, but the threat of his zanpakutō aimed at your most delicate parts has you swallowing your fear and stilling quite quickly—too terrified of any potential damage to free yourself from this predicament.

gin tsks at your reaction. “are ya trying to make me hurt ya?” he reprimands. then—the mocking cheer restored in his tone—he continues: “i’m sure yer aware of shinsō’s ability. how fast it can extend…how easy it’d be to just cut yer right in half from the inside.” the sadistic satisfaction he garners from your trepidation only fuels his cruelty. “could kill ya before ya could even scream.”

but once again your body betrays you.

why do you want to be at his mercy? was that previous mistrust—although definitely not unjustified—just misplaced desire? all you know is you want to surrender to his whim: to have him hold shinsō against you and show you just how insignificant you are—how easy it is for him to take your life with his very own hands.

more slick gushes from your clenching hole. gin’s eyes actually widen enough to reveal his lust-blown pupils, surrounded by the faint ring of his icy blue irises. an appreciative rumble rises from his chest as he painstakingly gathers your arousal on the point of his zanpakutō. a gasp catching in your throat, you blink up at him and watch him bring the blade to his lips: his tongue tantalisingly dancing along the edge, tasting your essence with a low groan.

“yer lucky ya taste so sweet,” he rasps, wiping his mouth on his sleeve with a devilish smirk. he slinks closer: his next sentence low with promise, breathy and salacious against the shell of your ear. “lemme play with yer a little longer, hm?”