Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. Quote is Wilde.

A/N: my first attempt at this particular pairing, and probably not my last. Forgive me, my knowledge of Bleach is sorely limited (but growing steadily with every passing day!) Regardless, I still tried to do this couple justice. Enjoy ;)

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We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.

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Ulquiorra tells himself that the infatuation stems from his incessant need to know everything. He is analytical, he is curious, and he certainly is thorough in his approach. He tells himself that his desire to intimately familiarize himself with Orihime is borne out of something akin to scientific curiosity. She is a tool, and he must know how to utilize her in order to further benefit Aizen-sama. He tells himself that this is for the good of his master; tells himself that he needs to do this to quell his own intellectual craving.

Know your enemy.

This, however, is not the entire truth. Because she isn't like the others he's dealt with before. She isn't a threat - not by a long shot, and yet still Ulquiorra has never felt himself so compelled to want to know someone so completely. He wants to peel her skin back, reach inside her; wants to take her apart and educate himself on her inner workings, see what makes her tick.

But there is something less wholesome there, although he pushes it out of the forefront of his mind. This is a quest for knowledge, he tells himself'; not a pursuit of the flesh. And yet there is no denying that she piques more than just scientific inquiries. She is beautiful, alarmingly so - enough to make him forget his usual aversion for physical contact; enough to make him feel strange and wanton; and certainly off-kilter enough to make create a situation where he has a temporary lapse in judgment, resulting in the present scenario.

And so now she lays beside him, slick with perspiration and swathed in the shadows of the darkened room. He has just taken her virginity. She might have just taken his own. It's hard to tell - Ulquiorra can't remember his past life, not as hollow nor human; can remember nothing before the first blip of his current existence, when Aizen brought him forward from the opaque recesses of otherworldly nothingness to serve. Still, instinct has served him well, and Orihime appears content.

Not that I care, particularly.

Orihime seems to think that the frenzied joining of their bodies gives her some sort of right to know him. Her hands trace over the ivory planes of his body, fingers ghosting across his clavicle, just above the gaping hole in his chest. Then she reaches up and uses both hands to trace the severe lines of his face, her thumbs skirting over each inky track that runs from eyelid to chin on both sides of his face.

"You must have been very sad in another life," Orihime remarks, her soulful orbs wistful. Her presumptuous manner offends him, and it irritates him to hear the pity in her voice. If he were Grimmjow he would slap her hand away but he is not, and so his features remain like cold marble, his expression completely unreadable.

"I can only heal the physical wounds. Not the wounds of the soul," Orihime says, her knuckles gently skirting the hard, frigid flesh of his cheek. Ulquiorra freezes.

"I don't need your commiseration, woman," Ulquiorra finally says, and one hand reaches out, seizes her by the wrist and pulls those obtrusive fingers away. He feels mildly irate with her, but of course his gaze betrays nothing except perhaps becoming a little stonier than usual. Orihime glances down at where he is holding the delicate appendage between his forefinger and his thumb as though it is something that repulses him, like a bug. "And what has transpired between us amounts to nothing. This was merely..." He falters momentarily, wildly wonders why he suddenly feels the need to justify his rationale to the likes of her anyway. "...An intellectual endeavor. Our sexual congress is not an invitation for you to pretend that we are... kindred spirits, or what-have-you. We are not lovers; you are a tool and I have used you accordingly."

Orihime looks at him with wide, shining eyes, and the sight of her gathering tears do not move him. Ulquiorra is used to such theatrics on the behalf of his captive. She is a silly human, and he expects no less from her.

"You're still trash, just like the rest of your kind," he says contemptuously, as the first drops begin to fall.

He is internally thankful that the forthcoming sobs mar her beauty somewhat. Because suddenly he feels less stifled - suddenly he can breathe again.

...When did I begin holding my breath?

And abruptly Ulquiorra decides that it is time to go, before things become more complicated than they already are. Orihime doesn't say anything, merely stares forlornly at his retreating back as he stoically marches past. Ulquiorra does not spare her a second glance as he makes his leave of the place; he is all too grateful to leave this overly-excitable woman and the lingering, turbulent feelings of lust and disgust and confusion behind him.