Not Alone, Bleach (Orihime/Grimmjow)
Title: Not Alone Author/Artist: shiegra Rating: R
Prompt: Bleach - Grimmjow/Orihime - Stockholm syndrome - It's not your fault that you're always wrong / The weak ones are there to justify the strong Word count: 786
He was sitting on her bed when she woke up.
Long limbs folded up, eyes focused on her; slumped with a predator casuality, the kind of relaxedness that was perfectly prepared to spring. Orihime sat up slowly, touching her cheek. The fairies had done their work well.
He grunted. "Weak."
She went red, helpless and embarrassed and flinching. She almost hated him, as much as she could, as fiercely as she could, a seesaw of emotions; because huddled in his shadow she was the kicked kitten to his saber-tooth tiger, and that accorded her a strange amount of protection. When Ulquiorra was here no one touched her, either, but Grimmjow roused himself to action out of some strange, wild whim instead of Aizen's protection, and she trusted the former more.
So: need and fear and anger and want, a knot in her chest like her ribs were tying themselves into pretzels or Christmas-present bows. All brightly colored wrapping and distress.
She didn't want him to leave, and he knew it, but he didn't seem to understand it. The first time she'd asked him not to go, stuttering and stumbling over her words; they'd come rushing out before she'd even fully formed them in her head, fear tugging them off her tongue before she could rethink the wisdom of the action.
Probably the fact that he didn't understand it was why he stayed. Maybe the fact that he didn't understand was why she'd survived asking.
She got up and walked to the table and put it between them, mute and strange, shivering, lost. Her hair felt heavy on her shoulders and her face ached with the memory of blows.
He had his elbows on his knees and he was watching her. She was more afraid of that moment when he surged to his feet, predatory interest lost and desire to leave clear, than she was of any other thing in this place.
She was afraid of him leaving her.
When he did get up, though, he came closer. "I'm not safe," he said, spitting the word with contempt.
His hand settled around her throat; she made a motion that was almost a nod, his thumb over her pulse.
"If I felt like it, I'd help them," he continued, voice sibilant-soft, lips curling back off his teeth.
He could, but she didn't think he would, because she didn't think Grimmjow shared prey--or meals. Orihime swallowed hard, her throat moving against his fingers, and his eyes burned like coals, like the heart of the flame. He hauled her to her feet, hand pressing against her skin. He was like serrated edge of an unsheathed blade without a handle, dangerous in every direction and recklessly, arrogantly assured of it.
There was nothing human in his face, no pity or anything she could measure on a human scale of emotions. It was almost scarier than Ulquiorra; something she couldn't see was almost better than something she just couldn't comprehend. He didn't see her as a person or a girl; she didn't fully understand how he'd ever thought enough like her to consider the orders she'd been given as putting him in her debt.
He'd saved her life, and he was the last thing sanity suggested she trust.
Orihime put a hand on his wrist--not gripping or tugging, just there, a small and fruitless gesture--hearing her own small, panting breaths, watching the light glimmer dully off the stark bone drawn along the side of his face. He didn't smell like anything human, either, like ice and midnight and the hot crackle of fire, and when he suddenly moved closer she thought for a mad moment that he was going to tear her throat out with his teeth.
But maybe they weren't so far from human after all--or else some vestigate of memory seeped through--because his mouth touched her skin, only his lips. On the corner of her mouth, parted, slightly damp, the furnace of his breath making her shiver convulsively.
He licked her like a cat, like he was testing her for flavor, and she squeezed her lips shut over a hysterical giggle. She didn't like this or she did or she shouldn't, and he wound her hair in his hands and pulled her head back, baring her throat.
It hurt but it didn't, and she didn't like it but she did, and she shivered and jerked and made little trapped-bird noises, noises like prey.
Missiles would come in handy right now, she thought admonishingly, and reached up and put her small hands on his shoulders, shaking.
He didn't feel human, he didn't, but he twisted the material of her dress in his fist and pulled her to her toes and just as she heard it begin to rip, she decided she didn't even care.