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The izakaya’s chochin lanterns reflect off the wooden walls, painting the restaurant in warm oranges and yellows, the hues blending into the grills smokes. Salarymen drink away the hardships of the past week, ties tucked loosely into the front pockets of now-wrinkled shirts. Waiters hurry back and forth between tables, maestros of tinkling, clinking and clattering; plates served, plates cleared, served, cleared, the rhythm never quite stopping.
As a response to the cacophonous call, Orihime’s nails start drumming on the half-empty glass in front of her. A nice tempo, a familiar tune, the opening song of her current favorite drama.
She’s into those, lately. Love stories, she means.
Instinctively—if not sheepishly—her gaze drifts to the man sitting across from her. She only means to glance, really. Just long enough to register him there among their friends, but her eyes linger anyway, skimming over his form as he laughs with Mizuiro over something she can’t quite catch from her end of the table. His canines flash sharp whenever he smiles or bites into his food, laughter quick and gentle between mouthfuls.
She tries not to stare—that would be bad manners.
And yet.
He looks nice, dashing, even, with his hair cut a little shorter on the sides, a black t-shirt clinging faintly to his frame. Tanned skin makes him look fresh out of a sun bath despite the middle of winter, and Orihime can practically feel the heat radiating off him. He’s always run warmer than most people, after all, something she learned long ago, in the countless moments her hands brushed over his skin as she healed his injuries.
Nowadays, it’s a little different.
Orihime feels that warmth whenever they hold hands and their fingers intertwine, his thumb drawing over her knuckles teasingly. She feels it in the way he tugs her closer when they part, arms firm around her shoulders, mouth close to her ear as he murmurs soft goodbyes.
Sometimes their kisses are soft, quick and almost chaste presses of lips that leave her smiling long after he left. Other times they’re messy, desperate, as their breaths tangle and their foreheads brush, and they don’t seem to know how to let go.
Yes, things have been a little different lately.
Because Ichigo and Orihime are dating.
It’s been a little over a month and despite pinching herself at least a thousand times and losing days worth of sleep over it, she still has trouble believing it’s real. But then he texts her good morning and good night and i’m passing by that bakery you like, want anything? and she feels like slamming her head against a wall until the giddiness wears out, except it doesn’t. It never does.
Ichigo is her boyfriend; not a boy who happens to be her friend—though he is that too—but a boyfriend.
Someone who picked her up from work days after Rukia and Renji’s wedding and confessed his feelings as they walked along the riverbank. Uncharacteristically flustered, yet his gaze unwavering as he told her how much their friendship meant to him, how special it felt to have her in his life and how, consequently, he found himself craving for more. It seemed almost logical, from the way he put it. As if falling in love with her was the most obvious answer to everything they’ve been through, the certainty to every doubt he’s ever had, the easiest feeling on earth.
Never in her wildest dreams would Orihime have imagined being loved by him like that.
The thought swells in her chest, warm and bright, but it also leaves her feeling lightheaded and just a little bit weak in the knees.
She tells herself it’s most likely the fruity cocktail she’s been sipping on for the past half-hour starting to do the job. Not that the taste of alcohol is one she particularly enjoys, usually too intense and bitter for her liking, but a sprinkle of sugar makes everything better—and so she left herself be swooned into it.
“You’re spacing out again," Tatsuki’s voice cuts in, amused.
Orihime looks up just in time to see her leaning over the grill, sleeves rolled up, tongs in hand as she flips beef cuts with practiced ease. The meat sizzles loudly, fragrant smoke curling into the air.
“Am I?”
“Uh-huh. I wonder why.”
Orihime shifts her feet under the table. “Probably the cocktail.”
“The cocktail, sure,” Tatsuki says, smirking. “Is it strawberry flavored?”
“Tatsuki-chan!” Orihime whispers-shouts, her cheeks burning as she looks around to make sure none of their friends heard that.
Tatsuki laughs before plucking the meat from the grill and placing a generous amount onto Orihime’s plate. “Go on, eat more, then.”
Orihime blinks. “For me?”
“Who else, dummy?” Tatsuki asks, fond despite the teasing. Orihime can’t help but smile, fingers curling around her chopsticks.
She takes a bite and almost tears up at the savory taste—the meat is perfectly cooked and just the right amount of seasoned, juicy and tender, melting into her mouth like warm honey. That place definitely earns a spot in her imaginary—but prospective—variety show where she roams all over the country in search of the best barbecue restaurants.
Just as her mind starts to drift away again—this time, to what the show catchphrase should be to really grab the public’s attention—her eyes lift without her quite meaning to, and she notices Ichigo already looking at her.
He’s turned towards her, elbows resting on the table, chopsticks forgotten in his hand. He smiles at her softly, one eyebrow lifting slightly, and the usual butterflies stir in her stomach at how handsome he looks.
She smiles back, then purses her lips. What? she mouths.
What? He mimics, teasing.
Orihime giggles, shaking her head, and he looks pleased with her reaction, unable to fully conceal his grin.
They stare at each other a moment longer, wiggling eyebrows and scrunching noses, before Asano clears his throat loudly.
“Guys? Yeah, okay—no. Here’s what we’re not gonna do.” He points at the two of them accusingly. “You two can’t act like a couple when we’re doing stuff like that as a group.”
Ichigo’s relaxed expression twists into a frown. “What? I wasn’t even—” He stops himself, then scowls deeper. “Hey, don’t fucking tell us what to do.”
“Fuck you, Kurosaki Ichigo! I’m doing that to protect the integrity of this friend group.”
Tatsuki scoffs. “That’s bullshit.”
“Yeah,” Mizuiro chimes in, “and it’s not like we’re a fixed group anyway.”
Asano’s face falls. “What? Of course we are. Don’t say stuff like that.”
“Not really,” Mizuiro insists matter-of-factly, “I’d say we’re more, like, small different groups of friends gathering when the occasion presents itself.”
“Please stop talking? ‘Cause now you’re just hurting my feelings for no reason.” Asano jumps to his feet. “We’re a fixed group and we’re all super good friends and we’ll stay that way forever!”
Sado, who’s been silent until now, adds calmly, “But Ishida isn’t here.”
“Yeah, well, Ishida’s the one who wants to become a surgeon and earn thirty million yen a year!”
“You actually looked that up?” Ichigo asks.
“He wants to become a pediatrician, not a surgeon.”
“He could become an astronaut for all I care!” Asano slams his hands on the table, the clatter of tableware ringing through the izakaya. “This is a serious matter!”
Tatsuki groans. “For fuck’s sake, stop yelling in my ears!”
He ignores her. “We need to set out clear rules. ‘Cause this is like seeing your mom and dad getting all lovey-dovey together. No one likes that.” He turns to Orihime. “Inoue-san, you get what I mean, right?”
Orihime looks around awkwardly. “I do, yes? In theory, at least—”
Ichigo and Tatsuki smack him on the head in perfect unison. Safe to say, the topic does not come up again for the rest of the evening.
The icy wind feels crisp on Orihime’s skin despite wearing a coat, but she’s relieved to step out of the restaurant for some fresh air. Fog blooms from her mouth with every exhale, the particles lingering under the dim streetlight, and though it isn’t the coldest winter Karakura Town has seen, the temperatures have dropped considerably these past few days. The heating in her apartment isn’t the greatest to say the least, so she has made the habit of drinking a supplementary cup of tea every night, as well as sleeping with the fuzzy socks Tatsuki gifted her for Christmas.
She starts humming along to one of the songs blasting from the izakaya—the karaoke must have started already—when the door slides open.
Ichigo merely takes a few steps before stopping at her side and leaning in slightly.
“You come here often?”
Orihime bites the inside of her cheek. “Come where often?”
“Y’know, here and there,” he says vaguely, then looks around for a bit. “Poorly lit streets?”
“Well, depends on my mood, really. Whether I feel like getting bitten by a vampire or not.”
Ichigo nods like she’s actually making sense. “Right. Any luck tonight?”
“Maybe.” She squints at him. “I mean, I’ve never seen you eat much garlic before, have I?”
“That’s ’cause it’s disgusting. And I also don’t want my breath to stink.” A pause. Then, he adds, “Especially not when we kiss.”
Orihime blushes, punching his arm lightly. “Ichigo-kun!”
“And I’d rather have you bite me than the other way around, to be honest.”
“Wha—” Her voice comes out way higher than anticipated, making him cackle. “You’re so silly,” she manages weakly.
If she hears him mutter how he wasn’t joking underneath his breath, Orihime doesn’t speak on it—nor on the weird, tingly feeling spreading in her lower belly at the thought of her boyfriend wanting her to bite into his skin.
Instead, she asks, “Is that how you would have approached me if we didn’t know each other?”
“Of course not. That’s, like, the lamest pick-up line ever,” Ichigo pauses, then squints at her. “Wait—would that have actually worked on you?”
She considers it, lips pursing thoughtfully. “I don’t know?”
“Seriously.”
She laughs at his deadpanned expression, the sound fogging the air between them.
They stand in comfortable silence for a bit, the hum of karaoke leaking through the walls. In moments like this, Orihime is glad they’ve been friends for so long—they know how to appreciate each other’s presence without pretending, without trying too hard.
Orihime stares at her feet. “It feels like we haven’t talked much tonight,” she says softly.
“Yeah, I’m sorry I got there late.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “I would’ve sat closer to you if I’d been on time.”
Her chest warms at that. “Is work really hard?”
“Nah. I just did a little overtime today ‘cause of a deadline. My coworker was freaking out about it, so I helped him for a bit.”
She looks at him, eyes fond. “You’re kind.”
He shrugs. “It’s normal.”
“Right,” she echoes, smiling. “Normal.”
Ichigo studies her face for a moment, then steps closer, tugging at the edge of her sleeve. “Come here,” he says, slipping both her hands into his jacket pockets. “Aren’t you cold like that?”
She shakes her head quickly. “I’m wearing thermal tights. There’s wool inside, so they keep me warm.”
He blinks at her legs. “I didn’t even know those existed. That’s pretty clever.”
“That way I can be cute anytime,” she says teasingly.
He snorts, wrapping his arms around her. “You sure are.”
And Orihime can’t help but swoon at the compliment. She loves the way his brown eyes shine when he looks at her, the way he pulls her closer, close enough that she can smell his cologne and feel his heartbeat beneath his jacket—steady, gentle, real.
The way his hands slip down her back to rest just above the curve of her ass, slow and unmistakably teasing.
Orihime exhales a shaky breath as she buries her face deeper into his chest, like a cat seeking out warmth. “Are we acting too much like a couple again?”
“We are a couple,” Ichigo reminds her, gently pinching at her lower back. “Don’t ever listen to anything Keigo says—especially not when he just got dumped.”
She bites her lip, hesitating. “Then,” she starts, her voice slightly muffled by his jacket, “Want to come over later? I bought this new tea yesterday, so—”
The sound that comes out of his mouth is a bit of sigh, a bit of a groan. “I don’t think me coming to your place at night is a good idea, Orihime.”
There’s anticipation building in her stomach at his words. “But we’re a couple?”
“Yeah, and that’s exactly why,” Ichigo murmurs into her temple, soft if a little reprimanding, “Don’t tempt me.”
It tickles whenever he speaks, his deep voice resonating within every inch of her skin, and she almost turns to mush right into the safety of his arms, certain he wouldn’t let her fall.
“But I want you to be,” Orihime breathes, heat creeping from her face down her neck at the admission. “Tempted, I mean.”
And tempted Ichigo is.
By the time salarymen gather outside for a smoke, forcing him and Orihime to retreat back inside the izakaya, his thoughts are a complete mess. A thousand images crowd his mind all at once, every single one of them revolving around his girlfriend, most of them things he’d rather die than say out loud.
He can’t help it.
Surviving the entire evening while she kept stealing glances at him had been harder than achieving bankai, and whatever conversation he tried to follow disappeared the moment her bubbly laugh rang out from the end of the table. All he wanted was to lace their fingers together beneath the table, to brush his foot against her just to see her look up, to feed her the beef he’d grilled himself instead of watching Tatsuki steal it. Instead, Keigo was whining about things he didn’t care about and Mizuiro was busy making eyes at the middle-aged waitress.
Never in his life has Ichigo considered himself to be someone clingy, but dating Orihime has awakened a side of him he didn’t even know existed. Or maybe it never did and she’s the one who shaped it, quietly molding him the way a child builds sandcastles at the shore, not realizing how easily they might change the landscape.
Nowadays, he doesn’t mind queuing an hour for a coffee shop she really wants to try, just like he doesn’t mind sitting through corny late-night dramas about basketball players and violinists if it makes her happy—that’s always been his priority, long before they started dating. They’d been fifteen and utterly clueless about the kind of obstacles ahead, and yet Ichigo’d known with absolute clarity that he wanted to protect her smile, to make sure she never cried because of him again.
He wants to treasure her.
Now that they’re together, he wants to make sure Orihime is comfortable with anything they do before he rushes into action, even when he so desperately craves to. But here she is, wrapping her arms around his torso, burying her face in his chest, telling him it’s okay for him to be tempted. That she wants him to be tempted. As if his body isn’t already magnetically drawn to hers every time she’s near. As if his hands don’t constantly itch to feel the warmth and softness of her skin. As if her lips don’t carry the sweetest flavor in the entire universe, one that makes him want to dive back in the moment he pulls away.
Ichigo is tempted—every day, so very much.
So when Keigo cries his heart out on a Hikaru Utada song and they all decide it’s time to call it a night, Ichigo walks Orihime back to her apartment with his hands shoved deep inside his pockets, knuckles white. The hallway light flickers when she unlocks the door, and for a second he thinks this is where he should stop—say goodnight, turn on his heel and take a very cold shower at home.
But then she turns to face him, eyes soft but certain as her fingers grab the hem of his jacket, and—well, that’s really all it takes. The space between them collapses and suddenly they’re inside, the door clicking shut behind them as his hands find her waist and her lips find his, hurried and warm and a little breathless, like neither of them had quite believed they’d make it this far without breaking.
The kiss is messy, uncoordinated, but neither of them seems to mind. Her lips move urgently against his and Ichigo’s brain nearly short-circuits the moment she opens her mouth, a quiet sound slipping from her throat as she gives him permission. He doesn’t hesitate, licking into her, tasting the familiar sweetness as his hands slide beneath the hem of her sweater.
“Fuck, Orihime,” he breathes when they part just long enough for air. “You’ve been driving me nuts all evening.”
She blushes furiously, shuddering under his touch, and the sight nearly kills him. Without thinking, he presses his mouth to her jaw, then her neck, slow enough to make her gasp. Her fingers slip into his hair in response, gentle but insistent, and he groans into her skin at the spine-tingling sensation.
“Let’s move from here,” he mumbles against the pulse at her throat.
They’re still in the hallway, shoes and jackets somehow discarded along the way—tea long forgotten—but the sofa is only a few steps away and he’s more than ready to take them. When she murmurs a soft yes, his body takes over before his brain can catch up, lifting her easily as her laughter rings warm in his ears, arms and legs instinctively wrapping around him. He carries her through the apartment and drops onto the couch with a breathless ‘oof’.
“You alright?” He asks, brushing stray strands of hair away from her face.
“Yep,” she giggles, cheeks pink. “It’s like that time Naoki carried Riko after they kissed.”
He snorts. “Buzzer Beat again?”
“Can’t help it! It’s my favorite.”
“I thought your favorite was the one about the former yakuza starting a ramen business.”
“Yes, well, it’s my second favorite!”
“What about the teen detectives one?”
“Jeez!” Orihime pouts, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “It’s my favorite love story! How do you even remember all those shows?” she adds, suspicious. “I thought you didn’t care for them.”
“I don’t,” he says honestly. Then, quieter, “But for you I do.”
The pause that follows is abrupt, a bit startling. She looks so genuinely surprised that, for a split second, Ichigo wonders if the words came out wrong—if the connection between his brain and mouth had somehow misfired and he’d blurted out the opposite of what he really meant.
“Don’t look so shocked,” he mutters, “You’re hurting my feelings.”
“Sorry! It’s just—” She laughs nervously, then exhales. “I’m sorry. I’m still getting used to it.”
“Am I not showing you properly?” He frowns, a sudden wave of unease washing over him. “I’d never do this with you if I wasn’t—”
“No, I know!” She interrupts, shaking her head vehemently. “I know. You’re so sweet.”
He groans. “Stop it.”
“I mean it,” she insists, hands cupping his face. “You take such good care of the people around you.” Her eyes search for his. “You make me feel so special—all the time.”
Ichigo swallows, heart racing at the praise.
That really shouldn’t get him going as much as it does, but he loses all sense of logic when it comes to Orihime. Kind, perfect Orihime, whose smile is bright enough to light up the entire Karakura night sky—and Hueco Mundo’s too. He’s always been appreciative of her positive attitude, her ability to never dwell too much on the dark side of things. A little envious too, maybe.
“Good,” he says, a bit breathless. “Because I’ll keep on doing it.”
My entire life, he keeps to himself. That’s one he can save for later.
She wraps her arms around his neck in a tight hug, the comforting scent of her vanilla perfume filling his senses, while his thumb drifts affectionately over her hip, just above the zipper of her skirt.
When their lips meet again, it’s with far less urgency than before, the press of their mouths slow and languid, years of restrained feelings pouring into the kiss. The soft wetness of her tongue against his is mind-shattering—addictive, incomparable to any fantasy he was too ashamed of entertaining as a confused high school boy.
Orihime hums into the kiss, blissfully unaware of all the cute noises she’s been making since earlier. He’s not one to complain—instead, he swallows them all, like a starving man stumbling across an oasis after an eternity in the desert.
He’s already way too stimulated, blood draining from his brain to pool lower, that he nearly loses it the moment she starts rocking her hips.
“Fuck.” Ichigo groans, raw and unfiltered, as he feels his semi turn into a full hard-on in seconds. He moves instinctively, thrusting up into her, hands roaming on her ass, and suddenly there’s nothing he wants more than to taste every inch of her skin, to feel her everywhere. As if she’s read his mind—or maybe because it’s getting hotter by the minute—Orihime breaks the kiss to slip the sweater off her shoulders, revealing a tank top that fits perfectly to her body and, to accentuate his suffering, leaves no room for interpretation.
“Shit,” he says eloquently, peppering kisses on the freshly exposed skin of her collarbones. “You’re unreal.”
“Please,” she whispers, face flushed, still grinding against him. “Take off yours too?”
He winces, the begging shooting right to his already-sensitive dick, but he obliges immediately, tugging his shirt over his head and discarding it somewhere in the living room.
Warm hands settle tentatively on his shoulders and he watches her through half-lidded eyes as she sets a slow, torturous rhythm on his lap. The friction is unbearable, sending sharp jolts of pleasure down his spine with each roll of their hips—hers too, judging by the choked sobs slipping from her throat whenever he moves faster, pressing his clothed erection into her core.
“I want to touch you,” he pants against her lips, desperately aroused, “and make you feel good.”
“Ah—yes,” she whines, her movements growing more deliberate, and he can't believe he gets to see her like this, needy and sensitive and so fucking perfect. All because of him.
Ichigo’s hand hovers for a heartbeat before moving with deliberate care, unzipping her skirt and tugging her tights down just enough. Her breath catches sharply the moment his fingers slide underneath the fabric and he freezes, searching her face for any sign of hesitation.
“Is that okay?” he murmurs, voice low, almost choked.
She nods, pressing closer, letting him know she trusts him completely, and he almost comes from that alone. It’s a special feeling, a bond so strong it goes way beyond physical intimacy—the result of what they’ve built together for so long.
His fingers start slowly, rubbing against her heat, letting her reactions guide him—every small gasp and shiver encouraging his movements, fueling a fire he no longer thinks can be contained. The sight of her arching into his touch, the sound of her soft moans, twists something deep inside him as he grinds against her, control slipping fast.
“Talk to me, Orihime, please,” he begs. “Tell me how that feels.”
“Good—” she sobs, legs tightening around him, “Ichigo-kun, that feels so good—”
The sound that tears from his throat is guttural, desperate, his abdomen twitching as the pleasure builds, his dick aching so badly it borders on pain—
When he feels her tense under his touch, his free hand instinctively cups her face, needing to see her as she comes—teary eyes, the soft furrow of her brows, red, swollen lips— and when her teeth unexpectedly sink into his thumb, Ichigo swears he sees stars, halting the frantic movements of his hips as pleasure crashes through him, leaving him breathless and trembling and fuck, he might actually be into that.
It takes them a moment to compose themselves afterward, limbs still entangled as they listen to the sound of their heavy breathing. With their chests pressed together, Ichigo can feel Orihime’s pounding heart slowly settling into a steadier rhythm, though it might be his instead, and he finds that oddly comforting.
Shifting back slightly on his lap, she looks down, sheepish. “I should help you out too—”
“No need for that,” he interrupts, ears burning. “I’m already…”
She blinks, and he can practically see the gears turning before her cheeks deepen to a brighter shade of red and she lets out a soft, breathless oh.
He groans, nuzzling into the crook of her neck. “It’s a bit late to be embarrassed, Orihime.”
“But you are too.”
“Of course I am,” he mutters. “I just creamed my pants like a teenager.”
Her laughter fills the living room, bright if a little hoarse, and it rings in his chest like his favorite song, like the rustle of leaves in a summer breeze—warm and peaceful in a way he’d never thought another person could make him feel.
Yeah.
Orihime has always been different, after all.