Say you want to stay, you want me to

Say you'll never die, you'll always haunt me

I wanna know I belong to you

Say you'll haunt me

-Stone Sour, Say You'll Haunt Me

Kissing his undead fixation might have been his dumbest and most grave mistake ever made. So dyer, it was nearly enough to damn him to the fiery pits of Hell with the rest of the sinners without trial or room for error.

If this were the case, send him there with a bouquet of black roses and swallow the key. Hell was well worth the risk if it meant owning the voluptuous creature in his arms. He was headed there anyway.

He doesn't know how—science, magic, heavenly intervention, who gives a fuck?—they end up back at his apartment, but it is fortunate they do. His erection is an aching force caged against his pants, begging to be released.

They are still lip-locked in burning passion, sliding against one another like two molded sculptures, ivory against bronze, sapphire contrasting emerald.

"Stop," said Ulquiorra airily, but his protests ended as soon as Grimmjow's lips find his again. This time he forces his tongue in immediately, searching out the soft cavern like the primal beast he was.

"I won't," he mumbled against the angel's trembling lips, "I won't. Never."

There was no exact taste to him per se, just a blend of remnants left behind. Exotic spice, steel, blood, and ice. So tangible, so delicious. It was as addictive as the rest of him.

Undressing was relatively easy, Ulquiorra's clothes practically falling from his skin, and he had to remember if that was a perk because it was sexy as hell to watch. His own clothes were tad more irritating since they had to be manually removed, but in record time as slim, nimble fingers assisted him in unbuttoning his jeans.

Once they were both graciously nude, Grimmjow took the time to fully appreciate Ulquiorra's exquisite features.

His body was perfect in every essence of the word. Grimmjow hates sounding all mushy, but there was no other way to accurately describe it.

Chiseled muscles were framed against a lean frame. Gorgeously curved hips, unnaturally fair skin, and a firm buttocks to top it all off. If this were Heaven, he was considering priesthood right about now.

Then again, the Bible had never did condone such behavior; so if this was Hell, well, that was fine too. It meant he could make it as dirty as he pleased.

Regardless of what his hormone-crazed genitalia raged for, dirty was not all he had in mind. Sure, it was hot and the growing tightness in his loins was like none he had ever experienced before. But this was not just getting off, this had to be special in every way.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold the phone. Where the hell is the usual Grimmjow? He knows it sounds crazy, but it is sinfully true. This isn't just physical. Technically, it could not be, since essentially Ulquiorra was correctively dubbed deceased.

Yet there was nothing dead about the way he was writhing and waning underneath Grimmjow's body. His long tongue flicked out and brushed against his lips, hungrily.

One of his slicker than oil hands was inching itself up the pale man's thigh, the perfectly sculpted piece of meat as gorgeous and luscious as the rest of him. That same hand wormed upwards, stroking the sensitive flesh there, reveling in the way his heated touch actually coerced a throaty reaction from the stoic man beneath him.

He imagined a tuff of black hair between his legs, bobbing up and down as he deep-throated the ailing hardness that was currently the bane of his erotic existence.

But no, no; bad, bad thoughts. Tonight his goal was to make Ulquiorra feel good, to give him the pleasure that he never received and never would from anyone but himself. Mostly because he was dead. Also, because Grimmjow was a possessive son-of-a-bitch no matter what.

Everything was focused on making his beloved angel feel as good and alive as he did, and if his desire just happened to be satisfied in the process, well then, there was such a thing as bliss left in the world.

Because Grimmjow would be his real first. This is how it should be. How it should have been had Ulquiorra not...had he not...

Had he not been too late, always remained unspoken by the both of them. It was a boundry neither was ready to cross. Had he realized how madly in love he was with him...just a few year earlier... perhaps things could have been different...

"Stop thinking," the words were breathed out raggedly, but Grimmjow knew an order when he heard one.

Then lips were probing his neck, hot air rushing against his skin sending a shiver coursing through his veins. Oh shit, the sheer sensual tone in that statement was enough to make his freakin' orgasm right. This. Second.

God, he was never one to comply, but he did not need to be told twice.

"I love you," Grimmjow murmured huskily, kissing every inch of exposed flesh his lips could reach. Occasionally his teeth would brush a previous hickey or stop to nibble an untouched parcel of marble skin.

Foreplay was rough and messy, sloppy in their eagerness to expose one another. Here, in the sanctity of the bedroom, where no could judge or ruin. Just them and the sweet act of joining, adultery be damned.

Pulling those pliant hips up to meet his, he fondled that taut opening, reveling in the shivers he elicited from the dirty act. Then, for the first time since their coupling had began, Grimmjow hesitated. Until a hoarse snarl came from the impatiently waiting figure underneath him.

"I am no stranger to pain," he reminded hoarsely, urging his hips forward with a needy groan. "Do it."

Reeling from the impatience in the command, a slow smiles creeps up Grimmjow's face when he realizes just how hot it dripped from the normally cool-headed being.

"It's not your ass I'm worried about," he explained whilst smirking, sultry and so very Grimmjow-like. He finally felt like he was back in his own skin again. "It's your voice. Because you're going to be screaming for me all night long."

With that, he plunges home, slick and sharp, with Ulquiorra crying out for him in pleasurable pain. It was the most magnificent sound in the world.

Their love was surprisingly sweet-tempered and graceful. Grimmjow comically imagined things had he been fumbled and staggering, but everything went smooth as the silk beneath their skin. He entered his love with a muffled groan of pure bliss, the body below keening in hurt and jubilation.

He added friction to the equation, rubbing Ulquiorra's stiff length in time with his thrusts, causing an ultra- overload. The pale body arched in pure delight and his ministrations tore the most wonderful moans from those luscious lips. Unable to resist the temptation, he dove in for another searing kiss, their tongues dancing in the same frantic passion of their bodies, as if time was of the essence and they only had so long to grope.

While that may be fictitious or not, Grimmjow can't help but not give a damn. Eternity seemed right at the base of his fingertips, intertwined with quaking slender ones, as he rode out the last ounce of pleasure when it tightened like a reign of fire in his gut and exploded in one star-blinding burst of semen and heat.

Ulquiorra came not a second later, and it was the most gorgeous sight in the world—pale lips parted, back bent into a high V, hands grasping at the sheets as the white matter ejaculated all over Grimmjow's chest.

When they both finished, the sound of their mingling sweat dripping across their chest and wet pants filling the musky air, both collapsed into heap atop the sheets. Exhausted and totally spent, the blue-haired man was ready for a long and uninterrupted slumber, but not without one final touch.

He reached over and pulled his lover close, pale muscles too lax and gratified to protest, proceeding to wrap himself around the other with a pacified sigh.

"Don't disappear in the middle of the night, okay?" he whispered, half-joking, half-serious. Ulquiorra made no reply, no vow of compliance; he simply nestled himself into the crook of his offered arms and let his face rest in the hollow between his neck and shoulder. Grimmjow smirked, knowing this was more than enough of a yes.

Content, sated and blessedly warm within each others arms, the two drifted off into a peaceful sleep, no nightmares able to steal this moment away. It was their's to share for as long as this eternity lasted.

Kurosaki Karin was the best on her team, or at least a near second. Her soccer team that it, the Karakura Kickers. It was her fourth vigorous practice of the week, in preparation for the big game on Saturday.

Breathing puffs of air and exerting rolls of sweat, she waved goodbye to her fellow teammates and friends as they dispersed for an evening of recuperation and homework. Her younger twin sister, Yuzu, was waiting expectantly by the fence with their bikes in tow.

Karin wasn't paying attention when a curt figure brushed past her, blinking when the familiar tuff of white hair went on ahead of her. The upperclassman was the only one who bested her on the team, the elusive and abnormally short for his age, Hitsugaya Toshiro.

"Hitsugaya!" Karin called, but it was useless. Her senior teammate was gone with the wind, vanishing up the street with surprisingly long strides she could never hope to catch up with.

"Where'd he run off to so quick?" asked her younger twin, perplexed and almost pouting.

Karin sighed and shrugged, wondering herself. "Who knows? He always disappears right after practice. Not a very social teenager."

Yuzu's eyebrows drew up to her hairline. "Even less than you?"

The older twin glared. "Shuddup. Let's get home already."

As they rode their bikes off in the direction of home, chattering idly, neither were aware of said anit-social athlete two blocks away. His shoulders hunched from the weight of the school bag hung over his shoulder, Toshiro didn't even bother to watch for traffic or fellow pedestrians. He just kept flipping his cellphone open and shut, for whatever sentimental reason.

"You know," a voice said suddenly, calling out to him from the street, causing him to stop, "keep hunching like that and you'll never get that growth spurt. Proper posture is the key."

Toshiro couldn't help but smirk, and anyone else would completely flag at such an expression, considering it was such a rarity. Except around her. With her it was...

"Short girls shouldn't give lessons on growth, Bed-wetter Momo," he jeered, watching with amusement as her admonishment melted into a pout. easy to smile.

"No fair, Shiro-chan!" she teased, wagging a reprimanding finger, "That was a low blow."

"Don't call me Shiro," added Toshiro, scowling again. Hinamori grinned wickedly.

"You've been telling me that for almost ten years," she remarks proverbially. "Obviously, it's not going to happen."

He sighed, running a hand through the snowy locks that had earned him said nickname. "And I don't feel like arguing about it for the millionth time. How about we call it truce for now so you can help me with my English Literature assignment."

He actually wasn't too terrible in English, but Hinamori was better. And her enjoyed her company much more than the studying. Plus, it keeps her occupied, which he also knows she is grateful for. She doesn't get much homework nowadays.

Besides, she was sucker for the poetry they went over, and Toshiro was a sucker for her reading the rhythmic lines with a glimmer in her eyes and a passion in her tone.

Smiling wasn't all too hard, and he knew, if he really gave it an effort, he could do it more often. For Karin and other team members. For the teachers and his classmates. For his Gran, even. But smiling shouldn't have to be an effort or a chore. It should come naturally, like the sun rising in the morning and the moon reclaiming the night.

Smiling should be unconscious or unbidden, not forced or strained. Lately though—for a while now—Toshiro just hasn't had a reason to crack a grin or curl his lips...and without that reason, that driving force, what meaning did the false expression even carry?

Hitsugaya was many things. A loner. A genius. A liar wasn't one of them.



Her head tilted to the side, her brown hair falling ever so slightly to the right. "You totally spaced out."

Toshiro snorted in denial. "Did not. Stop imagining things."

Chestnut eyes rolled. "Right. Next thing you know, you'll tell me your over a foot taller than me."

He frowned. "Hey. Low blow."

"Returning the favor," she winked, before bounding ahead of him. Toshiro shook his head with silent laughter. He wouldn't let her get away with that so easily, but for now, he was content to bask in the glow her dazzling smirk left behind.

Yeah, he probably should smile more often than he did.

Luckily, Hinamori gave him a reason to.

Guh. Sorry this took so long! Real life is such a nuisance, especially with school involved:/ Honestly, I kind of hate this chapter. The lemon was not one of my best, mostly since I haven't written on in a while. Meh.

And yes, I am a total HitsuHina shipper. They're like my most favorite het couple in Bleach and nothing anyone says can change that(: Anyway, I'll try to have the next chapter up as soon as possible. Maybe this time we can get past 40 reviews..? 50? Lol, I would be the happiest writer in all the seven seas...

'Til next time, never eat the yellow snow, and do your homework as I should be right now...