Bleach Fan Fiction ❯ Bright Majestic Winter ❯ One-Shot

Bright, Majestic Winter

by debbiechan

Disclaimer: I don’t own Bleach. Kubo Tite created its characters, and I may rape and kill said creations in this story. Not figuratively either. Be forewarned.

Warnings: Over-pretty writing, giant metaphors, sex, yaoi, eroticized rape, character death. This is your second warning; I don’t want to be flamed for offending you after you were warned.

for No Utopia whose dark stories challenge me.

Ishida was not surprised to be alive. Defeated, walking with aching legs, he still felt invincible.

His reiatsu was exhausted, not destroyed. Blood at the corner of his mouth tasted fresh, even though it seemed as if he had been walking a long time.

He had been led away from the battle by a hand holding his upper arm. He had stepped over shattered fragments of his bow and patches of melting snow. When he could lift his head without it rolling to either shoulder, he had seen skies parting to receive him.

Now he was being led through corridors of a white palace.

He and his captor kept passing through rooms with slanted, many-tiered floors. In groups of twos or threes, the Arrancar army sat--long legs dangling--on the tiers. Imposing figures with handsome faces that turned to look at the prisoner of war.

"Where are we going?" Ishida kept demanding. He was not surprised at how steady his voice sounded. Controlling his larynx was easier than manipulating spiritrons. He still had his power, but his arms were bound behind him with reiatsu-tempering rope. He would break it when he had an opportunity, when he regained his strength.

Hueco Mundo. It was like walking through winter. There was white everywhere, and it hurt to breathe because of the cold.

Pobrecito, someone whispered. Vas a Ulquiorra, vas a Ulquiorra.

Arrancar dressed in immaculate white. Even through his exhaustion, Ishida could take note of the streamlined grace of the clothes design. Tapered sleeves and high collars reminiscent of Quincy clothes he had seen in his grandfather’s photobooks. These enemies--unlike gross-toothed, ugly Hollows--looked civil, human-ish, even beautiful.

"Ulquiorra," said his captor. A smaller Arrancar with a single horn turned around.

The face jolted Ishida. It looked like the face he saw in the bathroom mirror on groggy mornings. Annoyed with banalities, serious about serious matters.

"You may leave," said Ulquiorra to Ishida’s captor. Ishida’s arm was let go; he felt his shoulder drop.

A door shut behind him, and Ishida wondered if he was alone with a being who held some status in Aizen’s army. Vas a Ulquiorra. This Arrancar seemed inordinately arrogant for how young he looked.

Even the black hair that hung on either side of Ulquiorra’s face looked like Ishida’s. The face did not look particularly sinister either. Just odd. Perhaps a little vulnerable. Black marks like tears on his cheeks. Green eyes with slitted pupils like a pet cat’s.

The green eyes looked Ishida over.

"Are you going to tell me," Ishida asked with perfect calm, "why I’ve been brought here?"

Ulquiorra’s bottom lip jutted forward. "Look at the floor," he said sharply.

Ishida did--but not before flashing a millisecond of defiance at his lookalike.

If he had made it this far, then the enemy needed him to be alive for a reason. If he gave away clues about his potential strength, he might not have an opportunity to gather any information. He would need to survive long enough to recoup his power. But after that? Even if he could pass through walls unnoticed--even if he could smash the dense air into spiritrons, there was no use summoning a single bow against the entire Arrancar army.

"Do you expect to be tortured for information, Quincy?"

Ishida didn’t answer, but he was sure that at this stage of his Quincy training he could keep his voice steadfast under the worst pain. He could die without cracking a sound.

"Your death is not going be an ordinary one," Ulquiorra continued. "Aizen-sama requires a transformation and your Quincy power."

Ishida’s eyes shot up to meet the Arrancar’s. Ulquiorra placed a hand on Ishida’s shoulder, and Ishida fell to his knees from the weight.

"Look at the floor," ordered Ulquiorra.

Ishida did. The reiatsu on his shoulder was significant, even though the Arrancar’s fingers were no longer pressing.

Now was the moment to fight back, to incite every molecule of himself to war, but before Ishida could take another breath, a coarse substance fell over his head and cinched around his neck.

Ishida fell backwards on his bound arms. He kicked his legs out to resist whatever was attacking him, and his kicks met air.

He couldn’t breathe at first, but after rolling onto his stomach and again onto his back, he realized that he could. The bag over his head was actual white fabric; he couldn’t see through it, but it had loosened somewhat and was no longer smashed against his nostrils.

He lay still.

"This will not be quick," Ulquiorra said, "but the process will be significantly less painful if you don’t resist."

At those words, Ishida resisted. His abdominal muscles clutched, and he willed himself to sit up.

He was pushed down by an intangible power.

Its heaviness flattened him, made struggling impossible, and then Ishida heard snapping sounds. Cracks were splitting his frozen clothes, letting in frozen air.

The moment Ishida had risen from the overcast winter of earth and floated into the bright, majestic winter of Hueco Mundo, his blood and sweat had turned to ice. Not until this moment, though, had he been aware of his clothes being so stiff.

He was like a statue dividing into pieces. Clumps of clothes fell away, and smaller bits stuck like needles against his skin. The distinct shape of a hand on his chest could be felt wiping them off.

"You’re hideous," said Ulquiorra. "Weak and hideous."

Pieces of his trousers were cracking, cutting into his thighs. Again the hand wiped the pieces away. Ishida attempted to roll away from the hand, but a force, a smothering reiatsu held him in place.

The hands took his boots off.

"What are you going to do to me?" Ishida forced his breath against the reiatsu bearing down on him. His voice was whispery but still calm. "Tell me."

"I have given you more than enough information already," said Ulquiorra.

Ishida opened his mouth to speak, and no words came this time. At some point his glasses had been knocked off and had settled against his neck. He could feel the legs poking the bag and the lenses caught under his chin. What is going to happen to me?

**

He was raped.

He knew it was going to happen the moment the hand touched his inner thigh, and then his legs were spread apart, and it was happening. It was simple, bearable pressure at first, no worse than the rope binding his arms. No more humiliating than his nakedness. He found himself wondering if this part had been Aizen’s order or if Ulquiorra was merely indulging himself.

Then a worse thing happened. His own reiatsu began to combat the opposing reiatsu pounding his body. The pain lessened, but it turned into something else.

An urgent burning. Pleasure.

Ulquiorra had been noiseless so far, but now Ishida could hear him breathing with effort. The hands which had been holding Ishida’s thighs apart began to strain for purchase, clawing and lifting Ishida’s legs higher.

"Do you feel my power, Quincy? I am not weak and disposable trash like you."

Words a warrior would speak to intimidate his opponent. Words meant to provoke a response. The thought occurred to Ishida that Ulquiorra wanted him to raise his reiatsu.

He opened his mouth and let out his frustration in one long groan. It was shameful. He had believed he would not cry out under the worst torture, but this rapture was worse than any pain. His genitals were swelling with blood and power. His arousal was rubbing his opponent’s flesh with every thrust.

If he could only find release. If he could focus his reiatsu anywhere but there.

A hand wrapped around his stiffness and did not pump. Ulquiorra’s hand.

Ishida heard himself gasp. He exhaled a long, shuddering breath and did not know if he was supposed to resist the pleasure in order to live or if he was supposed to follow it. He wanted so much to follow it.

In the shower, under the covers, always alone in his room, this feeling led to only one outcome, and he controlled every gesture before and after. He was being controlled now, and he had no frame of reference for this experience. He had never even fantasized about it--this sort of erotic victimization. It hurt. It entranced. It was wonderful agony.

"Trash." Ulquiorra’s voice was a heavy whisper now. "Trash, trash."

Ishida’s scream was muffled by the bag covering his head. His scream filled the space with warm air. All the cold near his body was gone. His face was burning; his chest heaved and sweated, and his own reiatsu scalded him from the outside in.

That’s when the rope broke.

Ishida reached with his freed arms to grab Ulquiorra by the head. One hand clutched hair; the other gripped that despised Hollow part, the bony horn. Kill him. Reiatsu could conduit from one hand to the other; Ishida wanted to explode Ulquiorra’s skull. Kill him.

"Very good," said Ulquiorra. He brought his face closer to the bag, breathed against it. Cold breath, unlike any winter Ishida had ever known on earth. Bright, stinging, gorgeous breath.

The bag split apart, and seeing nothing but white ceiling, Ishida took gulps of air. Focus your eyes. He saw that his hands still held Ulquiorra’s head, and he tried to summon a spell. Words. He knew he didn’t need the words, but he felt an urgency to remember them. What are the words?

As if there had ever been any words.

Ulquiorra’s face had melded into his, and it was a long moment before Ishida realized that a cold tongue was filling his mouth and thrusting in cadence with the Arrancar’s hips.

**

The rest would always be less than a memory, more than a dream. Ishida phased in and out of the belief that he wouldn’t win. Not because his opponent was turning Ishida’s own reiatsu into lust, but because death was becoming an attractive option.

"Disgusting," said Ulquiorra, tearing away from Ishida’s mouth. He smacked his lips apart and inhaled deeply. "I don’t want to look at you."

He pulled out and flipped Ishida over.

He continued to rape him.

For however long Ulquiorra rammed into him, Ishida was certain that his own face would melt before he came. His ears smarted with blood; he felt the heat under his eyes more intensely than any other sensation. Don’t come, don’t let go. You’ll die if you do. You’ll disappear if you do.

And then, to Ishida’s surprise, Ulquiorra shot and finished. Just like that. Ishida was not surprised to be alive--he knew that he was strong--but it seemed to him that Ulquiorra had given up.

The unreality of an already enormously unreal situation deepened.

A cold mouth on the nape of his neck. A nuzzling that felt like a threat.

"Fuck me, Quincy."

"What?" Ishida was panting. Lost between what he wanted to do and what he expected to happen, he did not know who he was anymore. Had there ever been anything but this dim plan that he was supposed to resist? Resist, resist.

Arms turning him over, a hand guiding him into a cold entrance, the inevitability of death.

And so Ishida he fucked Ulquiorra, expecting to die for certain this time. Trying to ignore Ulquiorra’s pronouncement--words spoken with low, hollow triumph:

"This is my power, Quincy. This is Aizen-sama’s power. To make you desire. To make you serve. You’re dying, Quincy. You will become one of us."

As Ishida tried to escape the words, the face that looked so much like his own began to blur into shapes of black and white with green eyes. Go anywhere. Go nowhere.

But there was nowhere to go except into an ice-cold beauty. His power melting before a greater urge, Ishida’s palms began to smooth across the slim figure under him. His mouth opened against the Arrancar’s white throat.

Ishida knew he could escape, if not with his body then with his mind. To a place without emotional context. Nowhere. Anywhere. Not where his grandfather had shown him salamanders. Not where flowers had startled him because they were real and not made of silk like in the handicrafts shop. Not home. Not the water fountain at school.

"Aizen-sama! Aizen-sama!" Ulquiorra’s voice was frighteningly loud.

Ishida’s fingers were digging into the Arrancar’s white shoulders.

**

Ishida came to consciousness slumped over the Arrancar’s body. The cold once again stung against his nakedness.

"Aizen-sama, Aizen-sama…." Ulquiorra’s voice was a pained murmur now. "You knew this would happen…."

This time Ishida was surprised to be alive. He lifted himself off the Arrancar with shaky arms and felt for his own reiatsu. It was whole. He was strong. He was himself.

Once glance at Ulquiorra, though, told him that the Arrancar was dying.

Ulquiorra was lying in a puddle of his own white flesh. His legs and feet were no more. His torso was writhing, if not from the pain then merely from the process of melting. His face showed no agony, only shock.

"Aizen-sama." Ulquiorra managed to say the name one last time, and then his mouth melted into his neck.

Ishida looked away, his mouth open in horror.

"Ishida-kun."

It was a gentle voice.

"Ishida-kun, it’s best this way. To serve faithfully and to die young. Trust me, I know you would not want to bear the responsibilities I bear, to endure the knowledge I endure."

Ishida looked up. The white-robed man extending his hand was Aizen, and the bright, majestic winter behind him was infinite.

END

Thanks to my beta, Finnigan Geist.

And just in case anyone is interested in the depths of my eccentricity, this story was written while listening to Allegri Miserere with crucifixes glinting as sopranos sang:

You shall sprinkle me with hyssop, and I shall be clean: you will wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow….

Turn away your face from my sins and blot out all my iniquities.

Although I prefer the poetry here:

Nandai (Japanese death haiku)

Since time began Kanete naki
the dead alone know peace. mi koso yasukere
Life is but melting snow. yuki no michi